The scent of old wood, faintly singed linen, and herbal tinctures clung to the air like memory. Élaina blinked awake under thick wool blankets in a high-ceilinged chamber where stone walls bore faded murals and tapestries that once belonged to nobler times. The room was warm, if worn—like a coat mended too many times but never discarded.
She sat up slowly. Her body ached with the dull stiffness of recent trauma, but her mind—her mind was racing. She remembered the blinding light, the terrifying cold, the impossible sensation of being torn from one world and thrust into another. Then came the fire. The screams. The hands pulling her from the rubble.
And the...
"Good morning," came a soft voice from the door.
It was the eldest daughter, Lady Séraphine d'Aramont. Her posture was straight, her clothing modest, and her hair swept in a half braid that betrayed how much effort she'd put into looking composed. But her hands—ink-stained and ungloved—gave her away. A scholar. Or at least, someone who dreamed of being one.
"You're awake earlier than expected. Father said you might sleep another day," Séraphine said, her smile kind but cautious.
Élaina blinked again. The language—she understood it. Fluently. But she had never heard it before. That realization sent a chill through her spine.
"You understand me?" Séraphine asked, noticing her silence.
"I do," Élaina replied, slowly. "Which is... odd."
"Well, you were odd from the start," Séraphine said with a shrug, stepping further in with a bowl of broth. "You fell from the sky into the western orchard, half-burned and dressed like no one I've ever seen. And little Aveline swears you glowed."
"...Did I?"
"she's eight. She thinks the goat glows when it farts," Séraphine said dryly, placing the try beside her. "Still, You're lucky we found you. And even luckier that Father insisted we take you in. Most nobles around here would've left you to the wolves—if not sold you to the black market first."
Élaina looked down at the broth, her stomach tight with hunger but her thoughts tighter still.
"Where am I?" she asked, finally.
"You're in Ravienne Vale, the duchy seat of House d'Aramont. Or... what's left of it," Séraphine added with a grimace.
Before Élaina could respond, the door creaked open again—and this time, the full household entered.
The first to stride in was Duke Mathieu d'Aramont himself. Broad-shouldered despite the wear of age, his hair dusted with ash rather than powder, and his coat patched by hand. He looked like a man who once dined with kings and now dug trenches beside commoners.
Beside him came Duchess Isabeau, quiet and serene, the lines on her face drawn more by burden than time. She carried a cloth bundle of warm bread and a basin of clean water.
Trailing them was Lord Lucien, perhaps sixteen, tall and alert, with suspicion veiled behind courtly manners. His eyes were polished steel—sharp, weighty, and assessing.
And then came little Aveline, whose hair bounced in unbrushed curls and who immediately darted to Élaina's side.
"You're not dead!" she shouted gleefully, wrapping herself around Élaina's leg like a vine.
"I... guess not," Élaina managed.
The Duke knelt beside the bed without hesitation. "You are among friends now, girl. I am Mathieu d'Aramont, and you are a guest in my home. What is your name?"
"...Élaina. Élaina Vaillancourt."
Lucien raised a brow at that. "Foreign," he muttered.
"I don't know where I am, or how I got here," she said honestly, then paused. "Actually, that's not true. I know exactly how I got here—I just doubt you'd believe me."
The family exchanged glances. Isabeau placed a gentle hand on her husband's arm. "We've seen enough strangeness in recent years. And frankly, it would be impolite to doubt someone who fell from the sky."
"It's true," Aveline whispered solemnly. "She did glow. Just a little."
Mathieu smiled faintly. "Then we won't ask questions you can't yet answer. You have shelter. Food. And should you need it—quiet."
Élaina exhaled for what felt like the first time since she arrived.
That evening, over a humble dinner of roasted roots and barley bread, she learned more.
The d'Aramont name had once held great sway—advisors to kings, defenders of the borderlands, masters of commerce and diplomacy. But years of political sabotage and a series of devastating harvest failures had reduced them to relics.
Then came the fire—half the estate torched under mysterious circumstances during an uprising the Crown blamed on poor leadership. They were never compensated. Half the staff fled. The nobility in court circles whispered that the d'Aramonts were cursed.
Yet they endured.
"I can't offer much," the Duke said quietly, "but if there is a path for you here—until you find your purpose—we will not turn you away."
That night, Élaina stood at the edge of the ruined estate grounds, staring at the skeletal remains of a great wing of the manor.
She thought about her old world. Her job. Her apartment. Her isolation.
She thought of how, after all her struggles to be taken seriously in a man's world, the universe had answered her with this.
And as the wind stirred the cinders in the elaria, she whispered, "Let's see what I can build."