The ballroom was burning.
Velvet curtains curled in the heat, releasing the scent of smoke and scorched dye. Glass chandeliers wept crystal teardrops, each one shattering on the marble like a heartbeat cut short. Somewhere in the chaos, a violin kept playing—its bow snapping mid-note before silence swallowed it whole.
People ran, shoved, screamed. A wall of silks and jewels surged toward the gilded doors, trampling anyone too slow.
She lay on the floor near the farthest column.
Her dress a dull brown servant's uniform was already heavy with soot. Her palms were scraped raw from crawling through falling debris. But no one looked down. Not even the nobles she'd poured wine for just an hour ago.
Her tray had rolled into a corner. Two silver goblets rocked on their sides, ringing with a hollow sound that made her chest ache.
In her last moments, she tried to remember her name.
Nothing.
Not a syllable. Not a single letter.
It wasn't just the smoke in her lungs—there was nothing there to recall.
And then, a strange, bitter thought bloomed: Wait… I do have a name. I did… once. But in this story, I'm not a person. I'm a label.
Maid D.
That was all she'd ever been called.
The others Maid A, Maid B, Maid C none of them thought it odd. They spoke as if the letters were birth names and the numbers, when assigned, were proud ranks. But she… she remembered something else. A different world. A different life.
This was just a novel. She was an unnamed servant written into the background, nothing more than a movable piece of furniture for the "real" characters.
And she was dying exactly how the author had planned: faceless, forgotten, erased.
Her gaze drifted to the grand staircase, where the crown prince appeared through the smoke—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a young woman in his arms. The heroine. Her hair glowed like spun gold in the firelight, and every noble in the room seemed to pivot toward her, as though pulled by invisible strings.
There's the main character, Elara thought numbly. The one the world bends for.
The heroine met the prince's eyes and whispered something dramatic—Elara didn't catch the words, but she was sure they were written into the scene for maximum impact.
A beam above her cracked. Sparks rained down.
No one turned to look at the maid lying by the column. No one ever did.
As her pulse slowed, she thought, Next time, I'm not dying like this.
And then the ceiling fell.
---
She woke to the smell of soap and damp linen.
The ceiling above her was plain wood, unmarked by smoke or flame. The air felt cleaner, lighter.
She sat up in a small bed, heartbeat thudding. Her hands—whole. Her skin—smooth. The maid's uniform she wore looked… older. Faded at the seams.
Her breath caught.
She knew this scene.
This wasn't the fire. This was before the banquet, before the war arc, before the heroine even met the prince. This was the morning she first arrived in the palace years ago.
From beyond her tiny room, a voice called briskly:
"Maid D! You're wanted in the west wing!"
She froze.
Maid D. Again.
They still thought that was her name.
But this time, she remembered. She remembered her old life. She remembered dying. She remembered the author's plot.
And she had no intention of following the script.