The last thing Rowei remembered was the hum of her laptop fan—overworked, overheating, like everything else in her life.
Then: silence.
Then: scent.
Not the stale coffee-and-dust smell of her apartment, but something older, wetter—stone walls sweating centuries of incense, dried herbs crumbling into dust, resin weeping from ancient trees. The air clung to her tongue like damp wool.
She opened her eyes.
No desk. No screen. No escape.
Instead: a high-vaulted chamber of shadow and stained glass, its arches ribbed like the inside of a beast's throat. Rain slicked the flagstones beneath her boots. Above, a crystal chandelier—too delicate for this gloom—swayed as if breathing.
And on the long stone table before her: trays of dried leaves, seeds, petals, resins. Sage. Rosemary. Something golden and sticky that smelled like temples and tombs.
Spices.
In her old world, these were cheap. Common. Tossed into pots by the handful.
Here, they gleamed like relics.
"Rowei."
The voice cracked like a whip.
She turned.
A man stood at the front—golden-haired, sharp-featured, eyes the color of winter sky. Professor Phile. And he was watching her the way a butcher watches a lamb that's wandered into the slaughterhouse.
"Stand," he said. "Answer the question."
Around her, students shifted in their seats. Twelve-year-olds dressed in wool fine enough to feed a village for a month. Their eyes weren't curious. They were hungry. Waiting for blood.
Then it hit her—not memory, but inheritance.
Fragments surged: a forged letter. A borrowed name. A dormitory spat that escalated into a declaration of war. And at the center of it all—Acina—watching from the front row with the calm of a spider who's already woven the web.
This wasn't a lesson.
It was an execution disguised as pedagogy.
Potions class. Identify the spices. State their use.
The original girl had never held real spices. Only the bitter dregs swept from market stalls. To her, these were treasures of gods. And now, she was expected to name them like they were bread and salt.
Rowei's pulse hammered—not from fear, but from calculation.
In this world, impersonating nobility wasn't fraud. It was heresy. And heretics didn't get trials. They got chains, public shaming, and a slow walk to the gallows—with crowds cheering every step.
She rose slowly. Kept her hands still. Her voice level.
"I apologize, Professor," she said. "My mind wandered. Could you repeat the question?"
A snort came from the front. Vena Wesleigh—Acina's shadow—rolled her eyes. "Wandered? Or just empty?"
Murmurs rippled. Does she even know basic herbs? What noble is that?
"Quiet," Phile snapped—but his gaze never left Rowei. "Identify the substances on your tray. Name their uses."
Rowei looked down.
Dill. Sweet basil. Parsley. Sage. Rosemary. Vanilla bean.
Common. Insignificant. In her old life.
Here? Each leaf could buy a week's bread for a starving family.
She reached out, fingers brushing dry stems—not to show off, but to anchor herself in the real.
"Dill," she said, voice low but clear. "Sweet-sharp. Eases stomach pain. Helps sleep."
"Sweet basil—used fresh. Brightens a dish, cuts through fat."
"Parsley—standard seasoning. Sometimes eaten raw, if you're feeling reckless."
"Sage—strong. Burns clean. Good in cooking, better in smoke."
"Vanilla bean—the pod of an orchid. Rich. Used in perfumes to hold the scent. Or, if you're careless, in food."
Then she parted the leaves.
Beneath them lay a small lump of golden resin.
Her breath stilled. Ah. So Acina isn't certain. She's testing with something rare—something sacred.
"This is frankincense," Rowei said. "Resin from the Boswellia tree. Painkiller. Preservative. Burned in temples to carry prayers upward."
She met Phile's eyes. "Unless I'm mistaken, Professor?"
Silence.
Not confusion. Not doubt.
Horror.
Phile stared at her as if she'd just spat on a saint's relic.
"You've… used these?" he finally asked, voice strained.
Rowei almost smiled. "Used? They're just plants. Though I wouldn't eat the frankincense. Tastes like regret and dust. Better in oil. Or smoke."
Of course he knew that. But even nobles didn't waste frankincense on classroom exercises. It was funeral oil. Sacred smoke. The breath of the dead. It belonged on altars—not student trays.
And it had no business in a beginner's materia medica.
Phile strode to her desk, picked up the resin, inhaled deeply. His face tightened—recognition, then dawning alarm.
"Yes," he admitted, setting it down with unnatural care. "Frankincense. My error. Must have mixed it in during preparation." He straightened, voice regaining its authority—but softer now. "For your precision, Rowei, I award ten points."
"Thank you, Professor."
As she sat, Acina turned in her seat.
Just slightly. Enough for Rowei to see those glacial blue eyes lock onto hers. Assessing. Calculating. Like a jeweler examining a flawed gem.
And then Rowei saw it.
The gold.
Acina's hair—pale, luminous, spun-sunlight gold.
Exactly like Professor Phile's.
The rest of class blurred into drone and shadow. Students yawned. Someone doodled sigils in the margins of their notes. Rowei kept her hands folded, her expression blank—but inside, she was sifting through the wreckage of another life.
The original girl hadn't been greedy. Just desperate.
Fisherman's daughter. Village on the Sea of Bei. Pirates came at dawn. Fire. Screams. Salt and blood in her mouth as she ran.
She was found half-drowned by a patrol of knights. One of them—a woman with kind eyes and a scar across her cheek—gave her a name that wasn't hers, a letter sealed with wax, and enough coin to buy a one-way ticket to Sirea Academy.
She thought she could hide among the gilded.
She was wrong.
They caught her within weeks. Failed a simple test. Whispered doubts became formal accusations. The Church Inquisitors came with questions and iron gloves. She confessed everything.
Then came the parade: bare feet on cobblestones, rope burns on her wrists, crowds hurling rotten fruit and worse. Vena Wesleigh stood in the front, screaming that her fine dress was bought with whoredom. Boys threw mud. Girls spat.
Seven days on the city wall. Then the gallows.
With her last breath, she offered her soul to whatever god would listen—begging not for salvation, but for a chance to do it differently. To be sharper. Colder. Smarter.
Whether any god answered, Rowei couldn't say.
But here she was.
On the very day the trap was meant to spring.
And this time, she wouldn't walk into it blind.
She glanced again at Acina—still watching, still smiling that thin, knowing smile.
Fine, Rowei thought. Let her think she's won today.
Because tomorrow?
Tomorrow, the game changed.