After my very intense negotiation—also known as surviving a verbal battlefield—with my mother, I marched out of her room with my dignity mostly intact and one glorious goal in mind.
The training grounds.
Wooden swords. Knights. Sweat. Progress.
Freedom.
At least, that was the plan.
"Young miss, your lessons."
The words fell like a guillotine.
I froze mid-step and slowly turned my head.
Selene stood there, arms neatly folded, posture perfect, expression firm enough to crush dreams. She was my personal attendant, my shadow, and—apparently—the sworn enemy of all my happiness.
"…I was on my way," I muttered.
"To the training grounds," she replied calmly.
"Which is not the library."
I pouted.
Yes. Pouted.
I was five years old. I was allowed.
After a brief internal funeral for my plans, I sighed dramatically and nodded. "Fine. I'll be a responsible future duchess."
Selene smiled faintly.
Victory—for her.
.....
The west wing library was massive.
Tall shelves stretched endlessly, heavy with books bound in leather and gold. The scent of old parchment hung in the air—nostalgic, intimidating, and oddly comforting.
At the center sat my tutor.
She looked up slowly.
Ah.
Yes.
That face.
The one that screamed: You are late. I noticed. I judged you.
She was elegant, sharp-eyed, and terrifying in a very calm way.
"I apologize for the delay," Selene said smoothly.
The tutor merely hummed, her expression unreadable, before turning her gaze to me.
"Please take your seat, Lady Evelyn."
Her smile was polite.
Her eyes were not.
To be honest, she reminded me far too much of my college homeroom adviser.
Cool. Strict. Slightly scary.
The kind who could emotionally destroy you with a single disappointed look.
Great. Trauma transcends worlds.
....
Lessons began.
Literature.
Mathematics.
Social studies.
History.
Magic.
Yes. Magic.
Science, apparently, had been politely shoved into a corner and forgotten.
Math was easy. Comfortingly so. Numbers behaved the same across dimensions—bless them. Literature was familiar, though the historical context made my brain itch.
Magic theory, however…
Fascinating.
"Lady Evelyn," my tutor said sharply.
I snapped back to attention.
"Yes?"
"Please refrain from staring into space. This is not a talent."
"…Understood."
I think she was annoyed that I occasionally drifted off, but etiquette prevented her from yelling at a future duchess.
A shame, really. I almost respected her restraint.
Still, the lessons were manageable. Easy, even.
High school-level difficulty.
Which made sense, considering I'd already graduated and survived college-level stress.
After academics came… suffering.
Dance lessons.
Embroidery.
Aka: elegant torture.
The dance instructor was graceful and unforgiving. My feet hurt. My pride hurt more.
Embroidery was worse.
Needles were evil. Thread had a personal vendetta against me. My fingers suffered multiple tiny stabs, but I refused to cry.
Villainesses do not cry over fabric.
I eventually got the hang of it—mostly.
The injuries were minor.
Character building, I told myself.
....
Finally.
Finally.
Freedom.
I nearly skipped as Selene and I headed toward the training grounds.
Knights were scattered around, some resting, some chatting. A few greeted me respectfully as I passed, and I returned their gestures with my most noble smile.
Ahead, I spotted my father.
And Theo.
They were sparring.
The sound of wooden swords clashing echoed through the grounds—sharp, controlled, powerful. From where I stood, it didn't look too difficult.
I was sure actually doing it was hell.
Father noticed me but didn't stop. Instead, he said something to Theo, and moments later, they stepped back, resting.
That was my cue.
I skipped over, grinning widely.
Father raised an eyebrow before smiling. "You seem unusually cheerful."
"I am."
"Any good news?"
I nodded enthusiastically and glanced at Theo, who was panting slightly.
"Guess what, Father!"
He tapped his chin theatrically. "Hmm… you defeated the embroidery needle?"
"…You didn't even try."
He laughed. "I'm terrible at guessing. Tell me."
"Mother agreed!"
His eyes widened briefly—just a fraction—before softening into a smile.
"Oh? That is good news," he said. "Though your mother doesn't agree easily."
"I worked very hard," I said proudly. "Only the basics, though."
He chuckled. "As expected."
He placed a hand on my head, ruffling my hair. "We'll begin tomorrow. I'm afraid your instructor is already exhausted today."
Theo nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.
I returned it.
Victory felt sweet.
...
Dinner passed in a blur of luxury.
Selene escorted me back to my room, where the twin maids—Anya and Mira—helped me prepare.
They looked identical.
Their personalities were not.
Anya was cheerful and chatty.
Mira was quiet and efficient.
Once dressed, Mira guided me to dinner.
The food was incredible.
Five-star restaurant quality. Every day.
This lifestyle could be dangerous.
That night, after my hair was brushed and the room grew quiet, I sat up and pulled out paper.
Plans.
Survival plans.
Avoid the crown prince.
Avoid the heroine.
Or—if necessary—befriend the heroine enough to not get framed for murder.
Simple.
Vague.
Desperate.
But it was a start.
I lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow…
Training truly begins.