Not the land.
Not the people.
Not the laws.
Not even the sky beyond the tall windows.
Nothing about this place felt familiar.
This was not her world.
Viviana's eyes moved slowly, carefully, scanning the room again with a predator's patience. Soft lights glowed from crystal fixtures embedded into the ceiling. The walls were smooth, pale, unmarred by runes or protective sigils. The furniture was shaped by logic and comfort rather than magic—curves made for fragile bodies, not immortal ones hardened by centuries of survival.
A foreign planet, she concluded.
Everything about it felt wrong in subtle ways. Too quiet. Too orderly. Too weak.
Acting blindly would be foolish.
So she did what she had learned to do over centuries of war, exile, and isolation.
She waited.
"I'm tired," she said flatly.
Without another word, she turned away from them and walked back toward the bed. Each step was measured, deliberate, masking the disorientation crawling beneath her skin. This body moved differently—lighter, slower, restrained by limits she was not yet accustomed to.
Behind her, something broke.
"Viviana—please!"
Her mother's voice cracked, raw with desperation. Footsteps rushed forward, hands grasping at empty air as if trying to pull back what had already been lost.
"We failed you," her mother cried. "We know. We truly do. But forgive us. Please… forgive us."
Viviana stopped.
Silence fell like a blade.
Slowly, she turned around.
Her expression was calm.
Too calm.
"She can't forgive you," Viviana said quietly.
The words landed with crushing finality.
Her mother's face crumpled instantly, hope shattering like glass dropped from a height. Her knees nearly gave out.
"But," Viviana continued, tilting her head slightly as though considering an interesting thought, "there is one thing you can do."
Every person in the room stiffened.
The air grew heavy.
"If you truly want forgiveness," she said softly, "then allow me to kill you with my own hands."
Silence.
Pure, absolute terror flooded the room.
Viviana watched them carefully, studying every flicker of emotion as if observing insects beneath glass.
Fear.
Shock.
Guilt.
Then—hesitation.
She exhaled, disappointment flickering briefly across her eyes.
"No," she said. "You won't give permission."
She shook her head slowly.
"That would be too merciful."
Her voice dropped, colder than stone.
"Killing you would relieve her anger," she continued. "And relief is something you do not deserve."
She raised her hand.
The air distorted.
Dark symbols began forming in the space above her palm, twisting and unfolding like living things. Ancient words spilled from her lips—incantations older than kingdoms, older than the mountains she once ruled from. The temperature dipped sharply, shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls.
Then—
Nothing.
The symbols flickered.
Shuddered.
Vanished.
Viviana froze.
Her hand remained raised, fingers slightly curled.
She tried again.
Silence.
Again.
Still nothing.
Her breathing slowed—not in fear, but disbelief.
She stared at her empty palm, then clenched her fingers tightly, as if trying to crush reality itself.
She grabbed her hair with one hand, nails digging into her scalp.
"What," she muttered, voice dangerously low, "did that white woman do to my power?"
No one dared speak.
"My fire," she whispered harshly. "My strength. My existence."
A sharp, broken laugh escaped her throat.
"How am I supposed to live like this?"
Her voice rose, frustration bleeding through restraint.
"How do I survive without power?"
Her eyes burned.
"Why am I even here?"
No one answered.
Zef finally spoke, his voice quiet, cautious. "Maybe… we should give her space. She's traumatized."
They didn't wait for agreement.
One by one, they backed away and left the room, closing the door softly behind them.
Viviana didn't notice.
She was too busy pacing.
Powerless.
The word crawled beneath her skin like poison.
She had lived centuries as a force of nature—feared, hunted, worshipped, cursed. Power had been her breath, her blood, her identity. Without it, everything felt… wrong.
Then—
Grrrrrrr.
She froze.
Her eyes snapped toward the shadows near the corner of the room.
Someone was here.
Her body reacted instantly. She grabbed the nearest object—a strange metallic tool resting on the vanity table—and held it like a weapon.
"Come out," she ordered coldly.
Silence.
Then again—
Grrrrrrr.
Her eyes widened slightly.
The sound wasn't external.
It was coming from inside her.
Slowly, she placed a hand over her stomach.
"…What is this?" she whispered.
She sat down on the bed, closing her eyes, focusing inward.
For decades—no, centuries—she had never eaten. Never slept. Never weakened. Her body on the mountain had functioned like a weapon, not a vessel.
But this body—
This body was human.
Her eyes opened.
"Hunger," she said quietly.
She stood, unsettled in a way she hadn't felt since childhood.
"So this is what it means," she murmured, "to need."
She moved toward the door.
Two doors stood side by side.
She walked straight into the first, expecting it to open automatically.
It didn't.
She stared at it.
"…I hate this world."
After a moment of irritation, she discovered the handle, twisted it, and stepped into a small tiled room filled with water fixtures. She examined it briefly, unimpressed.
Useless.
She left it open and moved to the second door.
This one opened into a long corridor.
She stepped out—
And stopped.
The house was enormous.
Lavish.
Decorated with wealth instead of power.
Gold accents, polished floors, paintings of landscapes she didn't recognize. No wards. No defenses. Just opulence and illusion.
She stood at the top of a staircase.
Instinctively, she stepped forward—
And tried to fly.
Her body dropped.
The fall was sudden.
Violent.
The crash echoed through the house like thunder.
Pain did not come.
But sound did.
Footsteps thundered toward her from all directions.
"Viviana!"
They rushed in panic—only to stop dead in their tracks.
She stood up calmly, brushing dust from her clothes.
Not a scratch.
Not a bruise.
The fall should have killed her.
She turned to them, expression neutral.
"My stomach is making noises," she said plainly. "I believe it requires fuel."
They stared.
"I am hungry," she clarified. "What does one feed a stomach?"
"…Food," someone finally said.
She nodded once. "Then take me to it."
They led her to the kitchen like people guiding a loaded weapon through a fragile building.
She sat at the table, observing everything with detached interest—the appliances, the sounds, the smells.
This world was strange.
Weak.
Yet… fascinating.
And until her power returned—
She would observe.
Learn.
And endure.