Chapter 3: Chapter Two — Lady Amara Wakes

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The first breath burned.

It scraped down her throat like smoke, like fire. Like life trying to claw its way back into her chest.

She gasped.

The air was wrong.

Too clean. Too cold. Scented not with antiseptic or car exhaust, but something earthy — lavender, wax, stone dust.

Her eyes flew open.

No ceiling tiles. No fluorescent buzz. Instead: soft shadows dancing across high beams of dark wood, etched with curling vine work and silver leaf. Drapes fluttered at a window carved not from glass, but from crystal panes. The air smelled faintly of herbs. Of magic.

Mira Langford was gone.

But she wasn’t dead.

She sat up too quickly — her head spun. Her body responded with the weight of unfamiliar grace, movement echoing like instinct not her own. Her hair spilled forward — too long, too soft — falling in waves of pale gold over her shoulders.

Gold. Not black.

Not hers.

She stumbled from the bed. The sheets were silk. The mirror across the room confirmed the rest.

The girl who stared back wore her eyes — sharp, unyielding, the exact shade of a courtroom storm. But everything else...

Porcelain skin. Regal posture. A face shaped like a poem written in ambition. And hair — golden and light-catching, like spun sunlight braided through power.

Mira touched her reflection.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination.

A rebirth.

But why? And why here? Was it some twist of fate, a cosmic joke that her thirst for justice had echoed so loudly it shattered the barrier between worlds? Or was it something more personal—a debt unpaid that the universe itself had decided to collect?

The door burst open.

Two maids spilled in, frantic, their expressions a mix of fear and awe. Behind them came an older woman with a stiff spine and tight-laced collar — the kind who’d run a household and an army without blinking.

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“My lady!” the woman gasped. “Praise the Divine! We thought we’d lost you!”

Mira blinked. Her throat moved, but no words came.

“Don’t speak yet,” the woman ordered, gently guiding her back to the bed. “The fever broke this morning. You were unconscious for three days after the riding accident. The physician feared the worst.”

Riding accident?

She didn’t remember anything of horses, or illness. Only blood. Rain. Lucien’s voice saying, ‘Justice only matters to those who can afford it.’

The memory sliced through her — sharp and surreal.

“I—” Her voice cracked. She tried again, slower. “Where... am I?”

The old woman blinked. “...Veradell, my lady. You’re home. The Lysenia estate.”

Lysenia.

The name rang through her mind like a bell she’d never heard but somehow knew. Memories — foreign yet familiar — flooded in. A girl raised among nobles. Tutors. Duels of etiquette and expectation. A name spoken with dignity, but always behind closed doors — as if power was something to be feared if held too tightly.

Mira Langford had been a lawyer in a glass tower.

Amara Lysenia was nobility in a kingdom built on crowns and blades.

The body, the name, the life — none of it was a dream.

She had died in her old world. And awakened in another.

Later, dressed in a robe of twilight blue and silver stitching, she was left alone by the hearth. The maids had insisted she rest. The old woman — a governess, perhaps — had warned not to strain herself. But Amara… Mira… she needed silence.

Alone, she began her work. She walked the length of the room, back straight, head held at the precise angle she’d observed in other noblewomen. The body knew the motions, but her mind rebelled, forcing the instinct into conscious precision. She repeated the greetings, the curtsies, the specific cadence of courtly small talk until her muscles ached. This was no different than preparing for a high-stakes trial. Every detail was evidence to be mastered.

She needed logic.

She paced the stone floor, hands trembling slightly.

This is an isekai scenario.

Ridiculous words. A fantasy genre classification. But if she didn’t label it, she’d unravel.

She ran the facts like she once would in court:

* She died — assassinated by Lucien Vale.

* She awakened in a new world, in the body of Lady Amara Lysenia.

* Her memories were intact.

* Her instincts were intact.

* Her rage... most of all, that remained.

And then—

She saw him.

Not in person. In the family portraits stacked along the hall, one caught her eye: a formal painting of Veradell’s royal family.

There he stood.

Tall. Handsome. Adorned in the midnight regalia of a crown prince. Blue eyes like ice over deep water. A smirk that hinted at charm — or something colder beneath.

Lucien Daevarion. Crown Prince of Veradell.

Her killer. Alive again in a world of titles and thrones.

It was him. Not just his face. His essence.

She knew it in her marrow.

A chill swept through her.

Different name. Different world. Same man.

Amara stood motionless for a long while, the fire behind her crackling in the hearth, its warmth unable to reach her bones.

This world was unfamiliar. Dangerous. Beautiful. But none of that mattered.

Because fate had handed her not peace.

But a second trial.

And this time, she would win.

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