Nine years later.
Nine.
Years.
Sometimes I wake up and think, "Alright, this is it. I'll open my eyes and it'll all be over."
But no.
The ceiling is the same.
The canopy is the same.
And I'm still in this world where dragons are not a metaphor, but a transportation issue.
Over the years, I've adapted. Not because I wanted to — survival, you know, is a powerful motivator.
First came learning to walk again.
It's humiliating when you're thirty and you fall onto a soft carpet while someone cheers enthusiastically:
"Oh! She took three steps!"
Three steps?
In my previous life I ran a publishing house. I signed contracts. I fired people.
And now the achievement of the day is not dropping a rattle.
Then came speech.
Have you ever tried consciously learning to talk? With a full understanding of grammar but without the physical ability to pronounce the words? It's like having a pilot's license and being forced to fly a toy airplane.
Writing was a separate form of torture. Here every letter is supposed to look as if it were drawn by angels with fine arts degrees.
My first scribbles gave the governess a mild nervous twitch.
Overall, this world is almost like mine.
Almost.
A few small differences:
— Absolute monarchy. Meaning the king isn't a representative of power — he is the power.
— Feudalism. Lands, titles, estates, bows, and the constant reminder to "know your place."
— The aristocracy is divided into two factions: the Houses — magical families with privileges — and everyone else. The latter don't even have a proper name. A very subtle hint at their value.
— And of course, magic.
— And dragons.
Yes. Dragons.
Real ones. They fly. Sometimes over the capital. Occasionally with diplomatic escort.
Usually they can be spotted near the borders of the kingdom — they rarely approach the capital itself. Too "politically sensitive creatures," as my father once explained.
Of course.
Even dragons have diplomatic status here.
The first time I saw a black speck in the sky slowly gliding across the clouds, I thought:
Of course. Why not?
Do you also have underwater trade agreements?
Turns out…
Yes.
But more on that later.
The history of this world sounds like the outline of some epic saga.
Once, there were the Creator's children — the Avriils and the Sefails.
Light and Night.
Day and Darkness.
Harmony.
Then humans appeared.
And, as usual, everything went wrong.
Ten years of war.
Then a truce.
Then "peaceful coexistence."
And somehow, quite accidentally, humans capable of wielding the magic of Light and Night appeared.
How exactly?
Well… I assume biology works roughly the same way here as it does in my world. Let's skip the details.
The Houses, however, are a whole different story.
Each House isn't just a family name — it's a source of magic.
Light — control, healing, purification, protective barriers.
Night — shadows, demonic energy, destruction, domination.
The first time I witnessed a demonstration of Night magic, I felt a chill.
Not from fear.
From the realization that it was too… beautiful.
Too alluring.
Light shines.
Night seduces.
A perfect conflict for a cheap novel, my past self would have thought.
Now it's not quite so funny.
I was born — or reborn — into the Virsavia family, a House of Light.
Our estate stands on a hill. The white stone walls glow golden at sunset, stained-glass windows shimmer with a soft radiance, and the surrounding gardens are trimmed so precisely it feels as though even the bushes are forbidden to grow chaotically.
My father is tall and broad-shouldered, with the voice of a man accustomed to giving orders.
But when he tells stories about his travels, his face softens.
The story of the "Mermaid Waters" is told in our House almost ceremoniously — as if it weren't a profitable trade agreement, but the beginning of a great epic.
Every time my father begins the tale, the servants unconsciously grow quiet, and my mother looks at him with that soft expression that clearly says, "Here comes the most romantic part."
Many years ago, while returning from a distant continent with his young wife, my father was caught in a storm.
The sky darkened so suddenly it was as if someone had thrown a sheet of black velvet over it. Waves rose higher than the masts, the wind tore at the sails, and reefs hidden beneath the water ripped open the hull of the ship.
Wood cracked.
Sailors shouted.
The sea had decided to show its temper.
And at the very moment when everything looked like the final scene of a tragedy, the water suddenly began to glow.
A soft, pearlescent light — as if someone had poured moonlight into the abyss.
Silhouettes rose from the depths.
Not caricatured beauties with porcelain faces and playful smiles.
No.
Ancient creatures. Cold. Watchful.
According to my father, their eyes were the color of the deep — the kind that reflect the sky, but never a human.
Wonderful.
A maritime delegation in the middle of the apocalypse. Perfect timing.
The mermaids did not rush to save the ship out of compassion.
They observed.
Evaluated.
Weighed their options.
When it became clear that the passengers were not nameless merchants but people with titles — and potential — the sea suddenly became… obedient.
The waves parted. The ship stopped tilting, as if an invisible hand had steadied it.
They guided the vessel out of the reefs.
Without wind.
Without effort.
Yes, of course.
A little magic, and the logistics problem is solved.
Why not always do it that way?
Later, my father was invited to an underwater palace.
He describes it as something beyond imagination: walls of coral, vaults glowing with soft pearl light, transparent curtains of seaweed swaying in the currents.
An underwater Versailles.
Only without dry floors — and with the constant risk of drowning.
The ruler of the sea folk turned out to be a cold and calculating being.
He did not ask for help.
He offered an alliance.
The mermaids needed access to land markets, trade routes, influence.
Humans needed their pearls.
Magical pearls are born only in the Mermaid Waters, and naturally they are harvested by the mermaids themselves. They enhance spells and are used in medicines, antidotes, cosmetics, and alchemical mixtures.
If you have a headache — pearls will help.
If you've been poisoned — pearls again.
If you want to look five years younger — well, you can guess.
The deal was made.
Since then, House Virsavia has become the official intermediary between the sea and the land.
Wealth came gradually — not like a sudden gift, but like a quiet tide that slowly raises the water level until you suddenly realize you're standing knee-deep in luxury.
When the walls of our estate glow with pearlescent light at sunset, my mother says it's the sea's blessing.
I look at that glow and think:
Mermaids never do anything for free.
…
Well.
I seem to have gotten carried away retelling my father's story.
My mother is an aristocrat from a House of Light on a neighboring continent. Tall, graceful, with a gentle smile. There is always a sincere warmth shining in her blue eyes.
Sometimes I look at her and think:
How is it even possible to be this kind in a world like this? That has to be against the rules.
My brother — Yakov Virsavia. The pride of the family.
His powers awakened when he was eleven. To mark the occasion, they held a formal reception and performed the ritual of the "Illumination of the Soul."
Illumination — sounds beautiful.
In reality it was a magical flash, a lot of shouting, and an archmage wearing the expression of someone who clearly wasn't being paid for overtime.
I was told that girls go through the same thing later.
I looked at my brother — who spent the next week pale and silent — and thought:
Can I just skip the magic part? Thanks.
Overall, our life is peaceful.
We're wealthy.
The law respects us.
The people don't hate us.
Almost an idyll.
Almost.
"Mariam, why are you here again? All the children your age are already in the conservatory!" my breathless mother rushed toward me in a pink dress.
Of course. Where else would I be, if not among ten-year-old mini-aristocrats discussing grain taxes?
I didn't lift my pen from my journal. My handwriting was perfect. My mood was not.
"Can't I just sit in the garden? Isn't Yakov supposed to greet the guests?"
He's the future head of the House. Let him practice. I'm emotionally retired.
"My dear, Count Villard himself has arrived today, with his son. You know Yakov has already outgrown the children's hall…"
Ah yes. The children's hall.
That special place where children behave like adults, and adults pretend it's adorable.
I looked up at her from under my brows.
"Just because I'm ten doesn't mean I find my peers interesting."
Especially when my "peers" think like junior diplomats with ambitions to destroy the world.
"Just for one evening. The Villard boy is ten as well. He's the heir to the House of Night…"
Oh, wonderful. Magical aristocracy of Darkness. What could possibly go wrong?
"Yes, I remember. We supply them with pearls for antidotes. I should act in the best interests of the family business."
I had heard that phrase so many times I could practically embroider it on a pillow.
Or engrave it on the family crest.
Virsavia: Smile for Profit.
The downside of being the daughter of an influential House?
Every word is an investment.
Every glance is a strategic move.
Every step is a potential alliance — or an insult.
Even if you simply sneeze, it becomes a political statement.
Sometimes I feel like if I trip and fall, it could trigger an economic crisis.
"After the reception, the library will be entirely yours for a month," my mother added quietly.
There it was.
The final shot.
The library.
A month.
Silence.
I felt the rebellious adult woman inside me slowly lowering her weapons.
Check.
And a very polite checkmate.
Fine.
For the sake of books, I'm willing to temporarily be a charming heir of Light.
The conservatory glittered as if the sun had decided to remain inside it forever.
Under the high glass dome, the evening light slowly faded, reflecting off gilded candleholders and crystal chandeliers. Their glow made the eyes blur slightly, while the air hung thick with the scent of fresh pastries, caramel, and powdered sugar.
From a distance — almost a fairy tale.
In reality — a strategic children's summit.
The hall was filled with children from high-ranking Houses and ordinary aristocratic families. Miniature versions of their parents: the same posture, the same polished smiles, the same attentive gazes gliding across the room in search of useful acquaintances.
At ten years old, I would have liked to talk about books or something silly.
They discuss grain supplies and influence at court.
Adorable.
The children's banquet resembled an elegant tea party with political undertones. Behind lace napkins hid subtle barbs, behind polite compliments — calculation. The more influential received smiles and admiration, while the less important were met with delicate jabs and cold indifference.
It irritated me.
Not because I was above it — no.
Simply because I understood the mechanics too well.
"Young Lady Mariam Virsavia!"
The butler's voice rang clear and ceremonial.
The conversations faded.
Eyes turned toward me.
Curtsies, bows — perfectly measured, as if rehearsed.
If only they knew that inside this sweet ten-year-old girl sat a woman who was already tired of corporate receptions…
"Welcome, everyone, to the estate of House Virsavia of the Light. I hope the refreshments are to your liking. Please, enjoy yourselves."
A phrase memorized to the point of automation.
I delivered it with the same tone I once used to sign standard contracts.
Of course, no one noticed.
To them, it was simply another required piece of decoration.
I passed the long table of sweets — glazed pastries, cream tartlets, fruits coated in sugar. The smell was so thick it was beginning to feel suffocating.
If I see one more lily-shaped pastry, I might personally turn into a demon of Night.
I settled in a far corner where I could observe everything without actually participating.
"You're as quiet as ever, Lady Mariam!"
Clarissa appeared in front of me.
Ash-colored hair neatly arranged, golden eyes shining with lively curiosity. There had always been something sunny about her — lightness, sincerity, an almost naïve enthusiasm.
"Clarissa, it's a pleasure to see you," I allowed myself a slightly warmer smile than usual.
We first met on my sixth birthday — a grand celebration from which I needed three days to recover emotionally. Our parents had decided we "should become friends."
And somehow, we did.
She talked — I listened.
She dreamed — I analyzed.
She believed in fairy tales — I already knew how they ended.
Strangely enough, that was our balance.
"Have you seen Duke Villard's son yet?" Clarissa lowered her voice slightly, scanning the hall with sparkling eyes.
"Clara, you are remarkably impatient," I tilted my head, allowing myself a faint smile.
In her mind, the idea of marrying a handsome prince occupied a central place. The moment a new boy with a title appeared, reason temporarily abandoned her young head.
"Why are you always like this? Aren't you curious to meet him? They say he's very handsome."
Of course.
At ten years old, beauty is clearly the deciding factor in a strategic alliance.
Especially if he's the heir to a House that practices demonic magic.
"And we shouldn't forget that the House of Night is famous for… rather specific abilities," I added innocently.
"You always ruin everything," Clarissa pouted and lightly shoved my shoulder.
I chuckled quietly.
No, Clara.
I don't ruin things.
I simply read between the lines.
And you're still reading the cover.
And yet, looking at her shining face, I couldn't help but think that perhaps her way of seeing the world was far more pleasant than mine.
It's just a shame that this world rarely lives up to such expectations.
While we were discussing the mysterious heir of the House of Night, a sudden stir arose in the center of the hall. The crowd of children parted, whispering, stretching their necks to see.
It seemed the cause of everyone's excitement had arrived.
I gave Clarissa a brief nod and moved forward — the duty of a hostess doesn't cancel itself. She, of course, followed, trying to appear both effortless and impressive at the same time.
The result was… touching.
Pushing through rows of young aristocrats, I stopped in front of him and performed a flawless curtsy.
"Welcome, Lord Daemon."
Clarissa and the others repeated the motion in perfect unison, as if we had rehearsed it beforehand.
"Lady Mariam," he inclined his head slightly.
Calm. Confident. Unhurried.
Ten years old, you say?
Interesting. I wonder where the "normal child" button is hidden.
I had already drawn breath to deliver my standard phrase about "hoping you enjoy the banquet" and disappear, when Clarissa suddenly leaned toward me and whispered:
"Oh no, please not that!"
I allowed myself a faint smile.
Betrayal.
Right at the moment of escape.
"Tea?" I asked politely anyway.
"No, thank you. I would like to see the estate. Would that be possible?"
Now that was unexpected.
See the estate?
What are you, an inspector? Or just looking for strategic weaknesses?
"Of course. I suggest we start with the garden," I gestured toward the exit from the conservatory.
Honestly, the thought of leaving this sugar-and-gold aquarium felt like salvation.
We headed toward the exit, and I noticed Clarissa glance at me — half questioning, half hopeful.
Ah. Right.
"Lady Clarissa is very knowledgeable about flowers and rare varieties of roses. I'm sure she can tell you far more than I can."
If someone had to entertain an important guest, it certainly didn't have to involve my lectures about books and the history of magic.
Time to deploy the heavy artillery.
The Talkative Trump Card.
"With pleasure," Daemon agreed surprisingly easily.
Oh.
He adapts quickly.
Leaving the conservatory in the care of the butler and servants, the three of us stepped into the garden. The cool evening air touched my face, and for the first time that evening I was finally able to breathe properly.
For a moment, a strange feeling washed over me — as if this scene had happened before. The same alleys, the same soft glow of lanterns, the same silhouettes ahead.
Déjà vu.
Nonsense. Just too much romance for one evening.
Clarissa was enthusiastically talking about rare varieties of lilies, night-blooming orchids, and butterflies that only appear at dusk. Daemon listened attentively, occasionally glancing back to make sure I was still walking behind them.
Simple blue-blooded courtesy.
I watched the scene with a faint smile. Clara was trying her best — adjusting a strand of hair, slowing her steps slightly, speaking softer than usual.
She definitely liked him.
And there was something surprisingly sweet about that.
"Lady Mariam," Daemon suddenly addressed me, "I heard that pearl shipments this year were delayed because of a storm."
For a moment I didn't even realize he was talking to me.
"Hm? Ah… yes," I blinked. "But is that really an appropriate topic for a walk in the garden?"
"I hope the restoration of the ships didn't affect your House too severely."
I stared at him in mild confusion.
Wonderful.
Evening. Flowers. A romantic garden path…
…and a discussion about financial losses.
"It did affect our income a little, but everything has long been resolved."
Why is he interested in maritime trade and economic consequences of storms at ten years old?
When I was a child, the greatest tragedy was missing the beginning of my favorite TV show.
Shipments? Finances?
"Glad to hear it," he replied calmly.
I barely held back a sigh.
You little negotiator.
All that's left is to sign a contract and seal it.
Meanwhile somewhere ahead, Clarissa continued enthusiastically talking about butterflies, completely unaware that her evening stroll had already turned into a business meeting.
After another pause — awkward and stretched a little too long — the garden filled only with Clarissa's voice. She was passionately describing butterflies, those rare ones that appear only at dusk and land exclusively on white lilies, as if they possessed taste and social status.
Daemon listened politely.
Almost too politely.
"I heard you're interested in literature," he suddenly said, turning to me.
Oh no.
He's coming back.
Strategic move number two is about to begin.
"In my free time, I prefer spending time in the library," I answered calmly.
In reality, "free time" meant "any opportunity to escape from people."
"My powers will awaken next year. To mark the occasion, there will be a—"
"A reception," I interrupted, unable to resist. "Yes, I've heard. Our family is invited. What exactly are you getting at?"
Aristocrats never speak directly.
They seem to enjoy unfolding their thoughts slowly, like ceremoniously opening a sealed letter.
Daemon smiled faintly.
"At the Villard estate, there is a library that rivals the royal one. I believe you might find it interesting to visit."
There it was.
An invitation through books.
Is this a new form of childhood flirting?
Come to my house and I'll show you my rare volumes.
"That is very kind of you," I replied, keeping a perfectly neutral expression.
And in the next moment he turned back to Clarissa as if nothing had happened.
I blinked.
Wait.
Was that a business meeting or a teaser for a future alliance?
Clarissa was glowing as if she had already begun trying on the surname Villard.
We continued down the alley. Stone paths softly reflected the lantern light, wind rustled in the tree crowns, and the air grew cooler.
I stayed slightly behind the lovebirds, allowing them to walk side by side.
Please don't hold hands. I already have enough drama in my life.
And then my shoes decided it was time to add some realism to the scene.
I slowed my steps and leaned against a marble column.
"Mariam, are you alright?" Clarissa rushed to me immediately.
"Perfectly," I smiled. "My feet have simply decided to protest against evening excursions."
"Is the lady well?" Daemon frowned.
Yes, yes, call a healer immediately. Victim of a social event.
"It's nothing. The family oak is just nearby. I've seen it so many times I could give a tour with my eyes closed. Lady Lavcor will gladly continue."
It was the perfect plan: give them space and save my poor feet.
"Of course," Clarissa winked at me with the expression of someone who had just been handed a gift from fate.
I watched them walk away.
No, I wasn't playing the noble martyr.
I was genuinely tired.
Taking off my shoes, I let out a quiet groan of relief.
"The Virsavia estate is practically a continent," I muttered under my breath. "Who even thought touring it in the evening was a good idea? A survival tour — don't trip and stay alive?"
I looked up at the sky, where the first stars shimmered between the branches.
And then a thought came to me — at first a funny one.
What if Clarissa marries him?
Things move quickly in this world. A few walks together, and the parents are already discussing dowries.
I chuckled.
"Clarissa Villard… I hope she at least invites me to the wedding."
The laugh came out a little louder than it should have.
And then it stopped.
Clarissa.
Lavcor.
Daemon Villard.
Light.
Night.
The Sacred Oak.
My heart stumbled.
Wait.
The pieces began to fall together.
Too neatly.
Too logically.
Too… according to the plot.
Déjà vu.
A garden scene.
The first meeting.
I slowly straightened.
"Please… not this," I murmured.
"The oak!"
I didn't understand where the panic came from, but my body was already moving faster than my thoughts. Barefoot, I ran, no longer feeling the gravel beneath my feet or the branches scratching my skin.
The sacred oak loomed ahead like a dark giant.
Beneath it stood Clarissa and Daemon.
"Clari—!"
She turned.
And in that moment, I saw it.
Not a flash.
Not an obvious spell.
Something subtle.
Almost invisible.
"M-Mariam…?" she said, confused.
My heart dropped.
She couldn't stand there.
I didn't know why. I couldn't explain it. But I knew — with the same certainty with which you know fire burns.
"Move away!" I shouted, already rushing forward.
And in the very next second,
the shadow trembled.