Elara's voice followed me through the dim stone corridors, soft and sharp at once, as though she feared to speak too loudly and yet could not stop her tongue from unravelling the truth of her own life.
"You need to understand," she said, floating beside me, her small body glowing faintly like a lantern only I could see. "From the moment I was born, they marked me. A child with no mana is not a child. She is a mistake. A curse."
Her words clung to the walls. She told me how the servants whispered when they thought she could not hear.
Useless girl. The house's shame. Better if she had never been born.
They spat in her food sometimes, or "forgot" to bring it to her. They left the windows open in winter, so her fingers went numb in the cold. They poured water over her books so the ink bled into nothing. Even the youngest servants treated her as if she were less than a shadow.
The nobles were worse.
They laughed when she entered the hall. They mocked the way she walked, too thin from lack of food, too tired from long nights of pretending not to cry. They whispered about her clothes, black and frayed, saying she must wear them to hide the rot of her own skin.
And because she had no mana, she could not strike back.
Here, mana was everything. It was the thread that wove society together, the measure of a person's worth. Children with mana contracted gods, binding themselves to power. Families grew strong, fortunes grew vast, and kingdoms bent under the weight of mana's glow.
But Elara had none.
She had begged for a chance. She told me she wanted to contract a god—any god—but her house had forbidden it. "It would be a waste," they said. "What god would want you?" Her voice shook when she spoke of it.
But still, in secret, she had studied. She had stolen fragments of books and scraps of rituals. And she had learned about the gods that could be bound.
"Most are weak," she whispered. "Gods of wind or rain. Gods of luck or harvest. But there are stronger ones. The pillars. Death. Life. Music. The three that shape all things. If one could contract with them…"
Her words trailed off, trembling with longing. "They are said to be eternal. Above all others. No mortal dares to call them. They destroy those who try."
Her eyes flicked up to mine. "But I wanted them. I wanted them."
"Which one?" I asked.
Her voice softened to a breath.
"Death, life, and music." The name curled through the air like smoke. We walked past cracked mirrors and narrow halls, and she told me of her siblings.
Caelum, the eldest son, is proud as steel. Selene, cold as moonlight, always watching. Diana, sharp-tongued, always laughed when Elara stumbled. And Maris, the youngest daughter, whose silence was heavier than any word.
"They treated me like a stranger in my own house," Elara murmured, her small form dimming. "They ignored me at meals, scolded me in public, looked at me with eyes that said I should not exist." Her voice shook.
"But one night, I heard them speaking. They did not know I listened. They said… they said the world wanted me dead. That if they pretended to hate me, the others would not strike so quickly. That if they pushed me away, they could keep me alive."
I stopped walking. Her translucent hands curled into fists. "I thought they despised me. I thought they wanted me gone. But it was all an act. And I was too blind, too bitter, to see it."
She bowed her head.
"And now it's too late."
Her words lingered as I stepped into her chamber again, into the dim place that now belonged to me. I looked down at the dress she had left me in—the same tattered black gown, the seams ripped, the thorns embroidered crudely in fading thread. It was not a villainess's gown. It was a shroud.
I touched the fabric and sighed.
In my world, I had been forced to learn skills far beyond smiling for cameras. My agent had been relentless, insisting that I know how to stitch a hem, repair a torn seam, and transform an outfit at the last minute. I had hated her then for the endless lessons in sewing and fabric. But now?
Now it was my salvation.
I stripped the black dress away, letting it fall into a heap on the stone floor. The bathwater was cold, but I sank into it with a hiss, scrubbing the ash of another life from my skin. Elara's hair, long and black, poured around me like a curtain, heavy but soft in my hands. I washed it until it gleamed like silk.
When I stepped out, the air chilled my skin, but I ignored it. I set the needle to cloth.
From the remains of Elara's wardrobe, I cut and reshaped, weaving pieces together until something new was born. A gown of deep midnight blue, the fabric sleek and fitted. A slit cut high along the side revealed my legs with deliberate grace. The neckline was sharp but elegant, not vulgar, not timid, but bold.
My jewellery I polished until it gleamed—silver threads against pale skin. My hair I left loose, pouring down my back like liquid night. When I looked in the mirror, I smiled.
Not Seraphina the angel. Not Elara the cursed. Something else.
Someone real.
The knock came when I was fastening the last clasp. "Lady Elara," a servant's voice called nervously. "Your parents… Lord Duskbane and Lady Duskbane… request your presence at dinner."
For a moment, silence held the air between us. The servant's voice shook slightly as though she feared my wrath, or perhaps feared the reaction of others if I appeared. I lifted my chin.
"I will come," I answered, my voice smooth as silk.
Elara's small spirit hovered at my shoulder, her eyes wide as she looked at me.
"You do not look like me," she whispered. "You look… like a queen."
"Then let them see me as one," I replied.
The dining hall was a cavern of stone and firelight, long enough to hold armies. At the far end sat Lord Caelum Duskbane, my father, rigid and stern, his jaw set like iron. Beside him, Lady Selene Duskbane, my mother, her hands delicate around her wine cup, her eyes sharp and unreadable.
Around the table were my siblings.
Caelum, eldest, his shoulders broad beneath a black coat, his eyes like storm clouds. Selene, quiet, her long silver hair gleaming like moonlight, her gaze cutting. Diana, smirking as always, her lips painted crimson, her fingers drumming idly on the table. And Maris, the youngest, silent, her dark eyes heavy with something unspoken.
The air shifted when I entered. Their gazes fell on me at once—then froze. The slit of my dress caught the light, revealing pale skin with each step. The silver jewellery glimmered at my throat and wrists. My hair poured behind me, loose, untamed, alive.
The servants gasped. My siblings stared.
And for the first time, the villainess they despised looked nothing like the broken shadow they remembered. I walked to the table, the sound of my heels echoing against the stone. I sat, my chin high, my gaze level. Elara hovered beside me, unseen by them all, her small face pale with shock.
And I smiled, slow and deliberate. "Good evening," I said. The silence that followed was the sweetest music I had ever heard.