Chapter 2: Calculations and Consequences
The air in Margrave Vassar's study was thick with the cloying scent of imported incense and stale arrogance. Caelan Aurelius, son of the Grand Duke himself, stood before the Margrave's ridiculously oversized desk, his posture radiating a casual disdain that rankled more than any overt insult. Vassar, florid and sweating slightly despite the room's engineered coolness, shifted in his high-backed chair.
"Lord Aurelius," Vassar began, his voice attempting a cordiality that cracked under the strain. "An unexpected… pleasure. To what do I owe this visit? No announcement was made."
Caelan waved a dismissive hand. "Formalities are tedious, Margrave. And time is pressing." He took a step closer, his grey eyes sharp and assessing. "I trust your preparations are proceeding for your… celebration?"
Vassar bristled. The boy knew. Of course, he knew. The planned culling of a dozen elf slaves to mark his ascension to Margrave wasn't exactly secret, but Caelan mentioning it felt like a threat. Not because the Duke's son cared for the knife-ears – gods, no. Caelan's antipathy towards elves was infamous, almost pathological. He had an uncanny knack for predicting their pathetic little uprisings, their desperate, futile gestures of defiance. That was precisely why Vassar's stomach clenched. An unannounced visit from him? It meant only one thing.
"My household affairs are in order, Lord Aurelius," Vassar said stiffly.
"Are they?" Caelan's voice dropped, becoming conspiratorial. He raised a hand, fingers tracing unseen patterns in the air. A subtle pressure change, a deadening of sound – a vacuum sphere, elegant and effortless, enveloped them. Vassar swallowed hard. Alchemy like that, wielded so casually… "Because my sources indicate otherwise. There's an attack planned, Vassar. Tonight."
"An attack? Preposterous! My elves are sealed, their alchemy nullified. Security is absolute."
"Is it?" Caelan tilted his head. "This isn't one of their usual, disorganized tantrums. There's outside support. Humans. Even some Dwarves, if you can believe the absurdity. Someone is playing a bigger game, using your slaves as pawns." He leaned in, his voice a low command. "Frankly, the pieces don't quite fit this time. It smells wrong. I need your full security protocols – ward schematics, guard rotations, everything. And I need access to your slaves. I intend to… investigate this personally."
The demand was audacious, insulting. But the fear Caelan expertly stoked, coupled with the weight of the Aurelius name, left Vassar cornered. He hesitated only a moment before nodding curtly, barking orders into his desk comm.
Later, under the guise of his 'investigation', Caelan moved through the cramped, reeking tunnels that served as the elves' quarters. He found the designated leaders huddled in the damp darkness. He dropped the sound-dampening sphere again.
"Forget Vassar's patrols," Caelan stated without preamble. "The internal security network is… experiencing technical difficulties. Permanently." He tossed a small, metallic disc onto the dirt floor. It hummed faintly. "That contains enough stored energy for your initial push. The seals I placed on your… inhibitors… are deactivated. It will take your bodies a few hours to fully reacclimate to channeling alchemy. Midnight is your best window. Minimal guards, maximum surprise."
An older elf, face etched with exhaustion and fury, stepped forward. "Why? Why you? The great Caelan Aurelius, elf-hater, suddenly our savior?" His voice was rough, scarred by years of suppressed rage. "How do we know this isn't another layer of human manipulation? How do we trust you aren't leading us into a different cage, just as Vassar believes you are being manipulated now?"
Caelan met the elf's burning gaze, unmoved. "You are elves. You possess senses humans can only dream of. Sense me. Feel the intent behind my words regarding this plan. Am I lying about the opportunity I've just given you?"
A ripple of concentration went through the small group. The air thickened with unspoken communication, a subtle shift in pheromonal undertones Caelan couldn't perceive but knew was happening. The elder elf finally spoke, bitterness lacing his tone. "We sense… truth in the immediate plan. But human nobles… you twist everything to your advantage. You can manipulate your own feelings if it serves you."
A ghost of a smile touched Caelan's lips. "Astute. Perhaps there's hope for your kind after all." He straightened, arrogance settling back onto him like a familiar cloak. "But let's be pragmatic. Agree or disagree, sense truth or suspect lies – what other choice do you possess right now?"
He didn't wait for an answer, turning and striding back towards the world above, leaving the heavy disc humming ominously in the oppressive dark.
Pain. Blinding, searing pain, followed by a profound, bewildering sense of wrongness. Sounds swam into focus – urgent, low voices, the beep of machinery. A wave of incoherent fury surged through her, hot and consuming, an almost homicidal urge directed at… nothing? Everything? It felt alien, yet terrifyingly potent.
Suddenly, a wave of unnatural calm washed over her, heavy and cloying, like scented oil poured over raw nerves. The rage didn't vanish, but it was… muffled, pushed down by an external force. Her eyes fluttered open.
Figures leaned over her. Pointed ears. Smooth, subtly luminous skin. Elves. They regarded her with gentle concern, their large eyes reflecting the soft light of the medical bay. The room itself was clean, metallic, filled with humming devices – technology.
Where am I? The thought screamed in her mind. Why… why do I feel like I want to kill someone? What happened? Flashes of memory – not hers? – an explosion, searing heat, shouting, a desperate shove… My mother? No, that wasn't right. Her mother died years ago, car crash… wait. Terrorist attack? Taking care of… sister? Why did this body feel so small? So weak? And most disturbingly… Why don't I have my penis?
The enforced calm held, allowing rational thought to surface through the panic. Okay. Okay. Calm down. Pain's real. Not a dream. Those memories… This body… Seraphina. That was the name flickering in the chaos. Injured in the rebellion. She was the only survivor.
Elves. Her mind latched onto the familiar fantasy trope, then cross-referenced it with fractured memories that felt both new and deeply ingrained. Right. Sylveria. Nature-connected. Big civil war after fighting humans – progressives who embraced tech versus traditionalists. These doctors… the equipment… progressive faction. The calming effect – Hormonal manipulation? One of their racial abilities?
She needed to talk to them. But how? The memories suggested elves communicated differently. Less reliant on spoken words, more on… feelings? Pheromones? Those weird electrical pulses fish used? This body… Seraphina… had been a slave for years. Probably wasn't fluent in high elven communication, whatever that was. But she had learned human languages, hadn't she? A pidgin version, perhaps?
Assumptions, assumptions. Just try. What to ask? Couldn't exactly blurt out 'Did I just get isekai'd into an elf girl?' Can't even trust if the memories of my past life – the coding, the money, the playboy swagger – are real. Start simple. Ground truth.
A dry, raspy sound escaped her lips, forming unfamiliar syllables. "Where… is… my mother?"
Wait, why did I ask that? She's dead, the memor–
The doctors exchanged glances, their expressions softening with pity. One leaned closer, her voice a low, melodic hum, but the words were clear, comprehensible Human tongue, albeit accented. "Little one… I am so sorry. She… she did not survive the explosion."
A sharp pang of grief, intense and overwhelming, lanced through her. It wasn't her grief, not really, but it resonated in this body, hijacking her heartbeat, making tears spring to her eyes. Damn it. Residual emotions are stronger than I thought.
She forced herself to swallow, pushing down the wave of secondhand sorrow. "I see." Her voice cracked. "Where… am I?"
"You are safe," the doctor said soothingly. "This is Sanctuary. A hidden place, an orphanage, for those affected by… recent events. You will be cared for here."
Secret orphanage. Good. Somewhere to lie low, learn. Okay. Step one: survive. Step two: gather intel. Learn the language, the alchemy, everything. Her past life's knowledge… a PhD in Computer Science might not translate directly to magical calculations, but the analytical mindset would help. She needed power, understanding. Investigate the rebellion that landed her here. Figure out this whole transmigration mess. See if there was a way back. My sister… is she okay? That thought brought a genuine pang of worry, sharp and real.
Right now, though? Priorities. She scanned the clean, efficient room again. Please tell me this world has invented decent plumbing. If I have to figure out toilets from scratch on top of everything else, I might actually embrace that homicidal rage.