Evelina stood before the mirror, her fingers nimbly working through the laces of a stiff, pale-blue gown. This body was far more fragile than she had anticipated. Every movement felt like wading through thick, frozen syrup; her lungs felt small, her ribcage too tight and her muscles lacked the explosive, twitch-fiber power she had spent years honing in the high-intensity government training facilities of the 31st century.
I need a high-protein diet, a custom chemical supplement and a strict conditioning circuit, she noted clinically, her mind already drafting a multi-phase physical rehabilitation plan. But first, I need to survive the morning.
She had just finished pinning her hair back with a simple silver needle—a needle she had specifically chosen because it was long, balanced and sharp enough to pierce a jugular vein—when the heavy oak door to her chamber didn't just open. It slammed against the stone wall with a bone-jarring crack.
A woman marched in, her face twisted in a mask of indignant fury. This was Martha, the Head Maid. Martha had served Lady Elena for twenty years and had spent the last ten of them making Evelina's life a living hell. She didn't knock; she didn't announce herself. In this house, Evelina's room was treated like a storage closet or a prison cell, not the sanctuary of a noblewoman.
"YOU!" Martha shrieked, her voice grating like rusted metal on stone. "How dare you defy the orders of the first wife? I sent that girl to bring you down ten minutes ago! You think because there's a General's son coming to visit that you can suddenly act like a person of importance? You are nothing but ugly, sick burden! Nothing more!"
Evelina didn't turn around immediately. She picked up a small vial of floral oil from the vanity and dabbed it onto her wrists. Her movements were graceful, slow and terrifyingly calm. She was calculating the distance between herself and the maid using the mirror's reflection.
"I am dressing, Martha," Evelina said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried a strange, resonant weight that seemed to vibrate the very air in the room. "A concept I assume you're familiar with, given your profession. Or does being the 'Head' maid mean you've forgotten the basics of service? Perhaps your brain has withered along with your manners."
"Don't you use that tone with me!" Martha roared, stomping across the room. Her heavy footsteps shook the floorboards. She was a large woman, fueled by years of stolen kitchen rations and the borrowed power of her mistress. "You've skipped your medicine, you've insulted the staff and now you're keeping the Minister and your family waiting. Today, I will teach you the lesson your dead mother failed to provide!"
The mention of her biological mother—the woman the original Evelina had loved with her whole soul and current Evelina was able to feel that in her heart—and that was the final spark. Martha raised her meaty hand, the wind whistling as she swung a heavy, open-palmed slap aimed directly at Evelina's face.
In the past two lives, this was where the scene ended: with Evelina on the floor, weeping, her spirit crushed and her face bruised.
But the woman standing there now was a 31st-century assassin.
Evelina's eyes narrowed, her pupils dilating as she entered a state of "combat focus." To her, Martha's movement was agonizingly slow, a clumsy display of raw, untrained aggression. Even in this weakened body, Evelina knew the physics of a fight. She didn't move her whole body; she simply shifted her center of gravity an inch to the left, letting the wind of the slap graze her ear.
Before Martha could even register that she had missed, Evelina's hand shot out like a striking viper. She didn't grab Martha's wrist; she struck a specific bundle of nerves on the woman's inner elbow—the nerve pressure point.
Martha's arm went numb instantly, dropping like a dead weight. The maid's eyes went wide with confusion, but she didn't have time to process it.
"My turn," Evelina whispered. WHACK.
The sound of the slap echoed through the stone hallways of the manor like a gunshot. Evelina hadn't just used her arm; she had channeled the kinetic energy from her heels, through her hips and into her palm, putting every ounce of her body weight into the strike.
Martha spun halfway around, her knees buckling as she hit the floor with a heavy, humiliating thud.
Evelina winced internally, looking at her own palm. It was bright red and stinging. You are far too weak, Evelina, she thought with a deep frown. A simple strike like that shouldn't hurt the attacker as much as the target. This body's bone density is abysmal. I need calcium and vitamin D3 immediately.
For a moment, there was total silence in the room. Martha sat on the rug, her hand clutching her swelling, purple cheek. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated terror. No one had ever struck her. She was the queen of the servants, the untouchable hand of Lady Elena.
"How... how dare you!" Martha finally found her voice, though it was high-pitched and trembling now. "How dare you slap me! Have you forgotten who I am? I will go to the Minister! I will tell Lady Elena! You'll be whipped for this! You'll be thrown into the dungeon! You're nothing but a sickly brat waiting to die and I'll make sure you die today!"
Martha tried to scramble to her feet, her face turning an ugly, bruised purple. She glared at Evelina from the ground, her teeth bared like a cornered, rabid animal.
Evelina didn't flinch. She stepped forward, her shadow falling over the woman like a shroud. She didn't look angry; she looked bored, as if she were inspecting a particularly dull biological specimen under a microscope.
Then, she laughed. It was a soft, melodic sound, but it lacked any trace of human warmth. It was the cold laugh of a assassin watching a target behave exactly as predicted.
"It seems the Head Maid has turned old," Evelina said, her voice dripping with mock pity. "And perhaps a bit senile. She seems to have forgotten the most basic rules of the Empire's hierarchy."
She leaned down, her face inches from Martha's. The coldness in Evelina's eyes was so intense—so ancient and lethal—that Martha's breath hitched in her throat. She felt like she was looking into the eyes of a predator from a future age.
"How else can a mere servant justify attempting to strike the First Lady of this house?" Evelina asked. "In the eyes of the law, Martha, that isn't just a lapse in discipline. It's assault on a member of the nobility. It's a high crime, punishable by the removal of the offending hand. Should we go to my father now? I am the blood of this lineage. If we go to my father, I will simply ask him why his 'loyal' maid is attempting to murder his eldest daughter and heir before a major engagement with the Valerius House."
"I... you..." Martha stuttered, the bravado draining out of her like water from a cracked jar. "Lady Elena... she says you're nothing..."
"Lady Elena is the second wife, Martha," Evelina interrupted, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a needle-point against the maid's throat. "And while she may run the kitchen, she does not own my bloodline. I am the daughter of the first wife. My status is cemented by the Emperor's own decrees of lineage. If you touch me again, I won't just slap you back. I'll ensure that the next 'medicine' brewed in this house is the last thing you ever taste. I know a hundred ways to make your death look like a natural cough but it will be so painful you will beg to die early."
Evelina stood up straight, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in her pale-blue skirt. "Now, get up. Clean up this mess. And then you will walk behind me to the garden, silent and obedient, like the dog you are. If you bark, I'll have you know exactly what happens to dogs who don't listen."
Martha scrambled to her feet, her head bowed low. She didn't understand what had changed, but she knew one thing: the girl who used to shrink away from a loud voice was gone. In her place was a woman who radiated a quiet, terrifying authority.
Evelina turned back to the mirror for one final check. She looked at the red mark on her hand. It would bruise.
Good, she thought. Evidence. In this world, a bruise on a noblewoman is a weapon against the servants who 'failed' to protect her.
"Let's go, Martha," Evelina commanded. "The General's son is waiting and I'd hate to keep my 'fiancé' waiting. We have a lot of business to discuss."