The days passed in a quiet blur of warm tea, rustling curtains, and ever-watchful eyes.
For the first time since waking in this unfamiliar body, Sia—now Luna—was alone with her thoughts. Maela hovered often, tending to her with the kind of devotion that made it hard to breathe sometimes. Other servants passed her in silence, bowing low and never meeting her eyes. The entire manor carried the weight of tragedy too old to weep over and too recent to forget.
And she… mimicked the ghost of a girl who had once lived here.
She rose when Luna would rise. Spoke gently, politely. Walked slowly, with delicate steps. When others were near, she kept her eyes unfocused—tilting her head toward sounds, pretending to listen for what she could now clearly see.
It was terrifying, how well she fit the role. As if the soul of Luna still lingered inside her somewhere, guiding her fingers, her tone, her smile.
But she couldn't be that girl.
That Luna was gone.
And in her place stood a stranger who had seen the end of her story and refused to follow its script.
On the third day, she returned to the east hall, a corridor left untouched since her parents' deaths.
The portraits on the wall were covered in silk sheets. Dust clung to every step, and even the chandeliers above seemed dimmer here. Maela had warned her not to wander so far, but Luna insisted she wanted to walk.
It was strange how familiar everything was. The novel hadn't described the manor in exhaustive detail, yet something in her bones recognized it.
At the end of the hall, a cracked wooden door caught her attention. Old. Faded with time.
And familiar.
Her hand reached for the handle before she could stop herself.
This is where it all began, a voice whispered in her mind.
Inside the room, once her mother's private study, the air was cold. Unused. The desk had been covered with a sheet, and the windows shuttered.
But as she stepped closer, something drew her to the far corner, where a full-length mirror leaned slightly off balance. It was plain glass, unadorned—yet it hummed.
Luna touched it lightly.
And for a brief second, the reflection shimmered. Not her current self, but a distorted echo—a girl standing still, her eyes pale and empty, blood dripping from her mouth.
She jerked back, heart pounding.
The image vanished.
"…The real Luna," she whispered. "Your memories are still here, aren't they?"
That night, the nightmares returned.
Fire. Screams. Chains.
And that voice—soft, coaxing, unnatural.
"Drink it, Luna. It's the cure. You'll be whole again."
"For your brother. He wants you to see the world."
"You'll be perfect again."
And then—darkness.
When she woke, the bedsheets were soaked in sweat, and her hands trembled.
It hadn't just been a dream. It was a memory.
The original Luna had died tragically at 18.
Sia remembered the chapter vividly. It had broken her.
A desperate older brother, tricked by a smiling apothecary with a false promise—a "miracle cure" that would heal Luna's eyes. He had been so hopeful, so painfully eager to help his blind sister see again.
He'd never known the truth.
That the potion wasn't a cure at all.
That it had been crafted by a devil-worshipping cult hidden in the noble ranks—disguised as a healing elixir.
And that Luna, the sweet, delicate marquess's daughter, had become the perfect vessel.
Her blood, her lineage, her grief—they had made her an ideal host.
And once the devil's soul took root in her… there was no stopping what came next.
Luna had burned half the Caelora estate.
Killed servants, guards, and even nobles who had once called her kin.
And in the final hour, when her brother tried to reach her—
She killed him, too.
Only the Male Lead, Prince Caidel, had managed to end it. Sword through the chest, mercy in his eyes.
That was how Luna's story ended.
And now…
"I'm supposed to be that monster," she murmured aloud, sitting by the window. "But I won't let it happen. Never."
There were two things she knew now, without a doubt:
Someone had orchestrated the original Luna's tragedy. Her blindness, the potion, all of it.
She wasn't blind anymore.
That second part was her greatest weapon—and her greatest risk.
No one knew. And no one could.
Because if they did, she'd lose the only advantage she had in rewriting this story.
She used her mornings for walks—slow, measured, led by Maela, who assumed she was simply regaining strength.
She listened closely to every servant's murmur. Which letters came in. Which noble names were spoken. She learned that the Apothecary's name was Varric Thorne. And that he had disappeared after her brother left for the capital.
She learned that Serion Caelora—her brother in this life—was feared and admired. That he ruled the Caelora estate with a firm hand and held favor at court for his military and trade acumen.
But he was also cold. Distant. And ever since the accident four years ago, he had never been the same.
"They say Lord Serion carries his guilt like armor," a servant whispered once, not realizing she was near.
"They say he blames himself for what happened to the young miss."
She clenched her fists behind her back.
If only they knew what came later.
On the fifth day, she received a letter.
The seal was unmistakable—a silver lion's head on black wax.
Caelora's crest.
Luna,
I've concluded the port trade negotiation earlier than expected. Expect me before dusk tomorrow.
– Serion
Maila read it to her,but
She stared at the letter long after the ink dried in her mind.
In the novel, Serion had loved Luna deeply. Enough to unknowingly give her the devil's vessel potion, believing it would save her.
When she killed him, he didn't even fight back.
Just whispered:
"I'm sorry, Luna."
Her throat tightened. A strange ache bloomed in her chest.
This time, I'll protect you, she thought. Even from me.
When dusk came, she dressed carefully. A soft violet gown. Hair brushed straight. She held her cane in one hand, resting her other against Maela's as they made their way to the front hall.
And when the great doors opened—
The man who entered was taller than she thought. Broader. Dressed in a high-collared black coat, silver embroidery curling over his sleeves.
His hair was ash-silver, swept neatly back, and his eyes—
Ice blue.
Cold. Intelligent. Controlled.
They swept across the hall… and landed on her.
"Luna," he said quietly.
She bowed her head. "Brother."
He stepped closer.
The space between them was heavy with silence.
Then, just as Maela stepped back, Serion said softly, "Raise your head."
She did—slowly, carefully, keeping her eyes just unfocused enough.
His gaze sharpened. "You've been walking more."
"I've been… feeling better," she said gently.
He studied her. "And looking out windows?"
She stilled. "Maela reads the view to me. I asked for the curtains drawn. It helps me imagine it."
Silence.
Then—he nodded. Just once.
But the suspicion in his eyes didn't fade.
"Welcome home, brother," she said quietly, falling into character again.
Serion looked at her long and hard.
And then, to her surprise—he stepped forward and gently touched her head, fingers brushing through her hair.
"I missed you," he said, voice softer than before.
And for a moment, she forgot to breathe.