She closed her eyes, letting the pocket dimension fade into the background, and suddenly—memories hit her like a storm.
Her mother, the Marquise, radiant and trusting, had believed in love. The baron appeared charming, polite, always attentive. He whispered sweet words, smiled at her laughter, held her hand in front of the servants. "He really loves her," the little girl had thought once. But her adult mind now saw it clearly: every smile, every word, was a lie.
He already had a mistress. Already had children hidden from everyone. And every act of affection toward her mother was carefully staged to steal everything—wealth, title, respect.
The girl's tiny body shivered as she remembered the day it all ended. She had been three, barely tall enough to reach the low table in the Marquise's study. Her mother had invited the baron over, unaware of the plot. The baron spoke gently, praising her beauty, promising loyalty. The mistress sat quietly in the corner, eyes cold, calculating.
Then the trap snapped. A subtle gesture, a whispered command, and suddenly the Marquise was attacked. The child's small hands clutched the edge of the desk, frozen in horror. She could see the cruel satisfaction on the baron's face as the life drained from her mother. The mistress laughed softly, whispering instructions to the servants to dispose of the body carefully.
The girl could do nothing. Only watch. Only feel the helpless rage boiling inside.
After that, her life became a series of rules, punishments, and servitude. The baron and his mistress claimed the estate. Every gold coin, every valuable item, every piece of her mother's belongings—taken. She was a toy for their amusement, their humiliation games. Her cries were ignored, her protests laughed at. She was beaten, mocked, starved at times, and forced into labor beyond her small body's limits.
The children of the baron, older than her, learned cruelty quickly. They mimicked the baron and mistress, teasing, cornering, calling her names, stealing small things just to watch her suffer. Each day was a puzzle of survival, each moment a calculation: where could she hide? How could she avoid the worst punishments?
And yet, the one thing they hadn't accounted for… the girl's mind. Even as a child, she observed, memorized, strategized. Every lie, every hidden weapon, every routine of the baron and the mistress became data. She cataloged it all in her mind, storing it like treasure—because she knew one day, she would take it back.
Even now, the pocket dimension flashed in her memory. She had it then, in her small mind, waiting for her to discover it, waiting to become her secret advantage.
She clenched her tiny fists. Every insult, every bruise, every stolen coin—it was information. Every cruel laugh, every act of betrayal, a lesson in who to trust and who to outsmart.
And the housekeeper… she remembered the woman's frequent muttering, her anger at the baron's schemes, the way she tried to protect the child in small ways. But her efforts were never enough. The girl had learned to be invisible even when someone tried to shield her, to vanish mentally, to survive internally.
The memories faded as quickly as they came, but the lessons stayed. She opened her eyes, looking around the pocket dimension, feeling a rush of resolve. Tiny body, yes—but mind trained by cruelty, strategy sharpened by suffering, power waiting to be unleashed.
The first step had been awakening. The second? Understanding everything she had lost, and planning how to reclaim it all.