One second, Rory Monroe was crossing the street, muttering about Charlemagne's overrated empire for her history exam. The next, headlights blinded her. A horn blared, tires screeched, and her earbuds blasted The Dragon's Heir. Then nothing.
Not black, not quiet, but a total absence, like the world had been unplugged. Her thoughts floated, formless, in a void that pressed against her chest. No air. No sound. Just a faint hum, like a distant machine.
Birdsong broke through. Sharp, melodic, not the city pigeons she knew. Rory gasped, her eyes snapping open. Trees loomed above, their leaves shimmering like stained glass, casting dappled light on a mossy floor softer than her dorm's cheap mattress.
The air smelled of honey and pine, clearer than her smog-choked lungs ever allowed. Sparkles drifted in the breeze, like glitter caught in sunlight. She pushed herself up, and her body felt wrong.
Too light, too smooth. Her hoodie was gone, replaced by blue silk that slithered against her skin, embroidered with silver threads.
She stumbled to a mirror across the room, expecting her tangled brown curls and tired eyes. Instead, a stranger stared back: silver-blonde hair to her waist, eyes green as new leaves, ears pointed like knives.
Her hands, pale and delicate, flew to her face. Sharp cheekbones, a tiny nose, and those ears. She tugged one, wincing at the sharp sting. "What the actual hell?" she whispered. "I'm an elf?"
Her last memory hit hard: the truck, the crash, her life snuffed out. She gripped the mirror's edge, picturing her roommate's laugh, the burnt coffee from the campus café. Gone forever.
Her throat tightened, but a sharp knock snapped her out of it. "Lady Juliette, time for the Welcoming Gala!" The voice was prim, like a teacher catching her texting.
Before Rory could answer, the door flew open. Three women in flowing dresses swept in, their pointed ears twitching under tight buns. "Whoa, back off!" Rory clutched the silk sheet to her chest, backing into a wardrobe that could swallow her old apartment. "Who's Juliette?
What gala?"
The oldest maid, her face creased like old leather, frowned. "No games, my lady. House Sylvana hosts tonight. The suitors await."
"Suitors?" Rory's stomach dropped. Her last date was a guy in flip-flops who ranted about crypto for two hours. Now she was dodging fantasy bachelors? The maids ignored her, yanking off her nightgown and wrestling her into a green dress that hugged her like a second skin. In the mirror, she looked like a forest queen, but her eyes screamed panic.
As they braided her hair into a crown, a blue panel flickered in her vision, like a glitchy game HUD. Words scrolled: Welcome, Reincarnate. System Activated. Quest: Survive the Welcoming Gala. Reward: Basic Skill Unlock. Failure: Unknown.
Rory blinked, but it didn't vanish. "A System? I'm in some isekai nonsense?" She'd read enough webnovels to know the drill: die, get reborn, cheat your way to glory. But this wasn't a story.
"Yo, System, how about a hint that doesn't suck?" No reply.
The youngest maid, freckles dusting her nose, smirked as she tugged a corset lace. "Nervous, my lady? I'd be too, with all those lords watching."
"Nervous?" Rory snorted, wincing as the corset squeezed. "Just trying not to trip in this thing." The maid laughed, but the older one shushed her, muttering about manners.
They herded her down a staircase, past tapestries shimmering with silver threads. Her new senses buzzed: jasmine in the air, a faint hum of magic on her skin. Her body's memories stirred. She was Juliette, daughter of Lord Sylvana, caught in a feud with a human family, House Draconis, over a stolen gem called the Starheart. Blood spilled for centuries. Great. She was in a fantasy war zone with no guide.
The gala hall was chaos. Elves in glittering robes mingled with humans in sharp tunics, their laughter clashing with a harp that played itself. Tables groaned under glowing fruit and drinks that fizzed like they might bite. Rory's stomach growled, but she wasn't touching anything that looked cursed.
"Smile, Lady Juliette," the freckled maid whispered, nudging her. "Your father's watching."
Rory spotted him across the room: Lord Sylvana, tall, silver-haired, gripping a cane like a weapon, his eyes scanning the crowd like he was counting enemies.
A memory flashed: young Juliette reaching for his hand, him turning away, cold as the marble under her feet. She forced a smile, feeling like a kid shoved onstage without lines.
Then she saw him. A human leaning against a pillar, black hair falling into his eyes, a sword at his hip. His red tunic screamed Draconis, and a scar curved along his jaw, catching the light. He caught her staring, lips twitching into a half-smile, raising his goblet like a challenge. Her pulse spiked, her new senses making his gaze feel like a spotlight.
"Lady Juliette, may I present Lord Calen?" The prim maid's voice yanked her back. A wiry elf in gold robes stepped forward, his breath sour with wine as he bowed too close. His smile was all teeth, like a salesman eyeing a sale.
Rory stepped back, her skin crawling. "I'm good," she said, too loud. The maid gasped, and Calen's smile froze, his eyes glinting with spite. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Five minutes in, and she'd made an enemy.
The System pinged: Quest Update: Avoid Lord Calen's Proposal. Reward: Charm Boost. Failure: Social Disgrace. Rory muttered, "Great, now I'm dodging creeps." The System stayed silent.
The music shifted to a waltz, and couples swirled onto the dance floor. Calen hovered, his wine-breath trailing her. She needed air. Spotting a curtained balcony, she slipped through, the cool night a relief. The forest beyond glowed, trees pulsing with light. She leaned on the railing, whispering, "No more car horns, no shitty coffee. Just this." Her chest ached, her old life a ghost.
"Lost in thought, Juliette?" The voice was low, rough. She turned to find the Draconis guy, goblet in hand, leaning against the balcony's edge. His scar looked sharper up close.
"Not lost," she said, crossing her arms. "Just figuring out this mess."
He chuckled, stepping closer, his boots scuffing the stone. "This mess doesn't suit you. You move like you're dodging something bigger than a gala." His storm-gray eyes held hers, sharp and curious.
She smirked, her old self peeking out. "Maybe I am. You got a name, or do I call you Scarface?"
"Romeus," he said, grin widening. "Just Romeus. And you're not what I expected from a Sylvana." He leaned in, voice low. "Most would've hexed me by now."
"Out of hexes," she said, holding his gaze. The System pinged: Charm Boost Unlocked. A tingle ran through her, like her confidence kicked up a notch.
A servant in a plain cloak brushed past, slipping a note into her hand. His voice was a rasp: "The Starheart knows your secret, reincarnate." He vanished into the crowd.
Rory's fingers froze on the note. She unfolded it, dread curling in her gut. The ink was fresh: You don't belong here. The Starheart will burn you. Romeus's hand twitched toward his sword, his eyes on the note. "What's that?" he asked, voice sharp.
She shoved it into her sleeve, her pulse racing. "Some creep's bad poetry," she said, but her voice cracked. Someone knew she wasn't Juliette. And they weren't playing nice.