The Count died today.
I didn't need a grim-faced physician, whispering servants in the corridors, or the sight of his six red-eyed children gathered outside the bedchamber to know it.
I knew because of a sensation in my chest—something felt... wrong.
It was like a distant alarm. Faint, yet impossible to ignore.
"My Lady."
The Head Butler—an old man with a hunched back and thinning white hair—stood at the threshold. His hands were trembling. Not from age, but from fear.
"The Count... calls for you."
I rose from the chair by the window. My feet moved soundlessly across the worn fox-fur carpet. I couldn't remember the last time I had sat in that chair. Or why I was even in this room.
My mind was a void. A blank canvas untouched by a brush.
Yet, my steps... my steps felt familiar.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Light. Measured. The gait of a predator closing in on its prey, not a wife going to see her dying husband.
How did I know that?
The Count's chambers lay in the castle's east wing. To get there, I had to traverse a long corridor lined with stained-glass windows depicting the family's ancestors. Frozen faces in colored glass. They stared as I passed.
I didn't recognize a single one of them.
At the end of the hall, the six children stood waiting.
The eldest—a young man with a rugged jawline and messy black hair—leaned against the wall. His arms were crossed. His eyes were bloodshot, but his gaze was sharp, piercing through me. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. I could read the hostility there as clearly as a written page.
Beside him, a teenage girl with blonde hair fidgeted with her sleeves. Her eyes were wet. She spared me a fleeting glance before looking down.
The two younger ones—twins, judging by their near-identical faces—stood huddled together. The girl bit her lower lip. The boy stared at me with furrowed brows, as if solving a puzzle.
The remaining two stood further away. The boy stared blankly at the floor; the girl hugged herself.
Six children. Six pairs of eyes. And not a single soul I knew.
"Step inside, My Lady."
The Head Butler held the door open. I stepped in. The heavy door clicked shut behind me.
Inside, the thick, cloying scent of incense and medicine hit my nostrils. It was nauseating. The physician stood in the corner, his face reflecting utter defeat. Candles flickered here and there, casting dancing shadows against the stone walls.
And there, upon the crimson silk bed, lay the Count.
I didn't know his age. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, telling the story of a long journey. His hair, perhaps once black, was now entirely white. His eyes were closed. His breath came in short, raspy rattles—air forced through a narrow slit.
I stood by the bedside.
No grief. No tears. Only... emptiness.
Was I supposed to feel something?
The Count's voice broke the silence. Hoarse. Low. Yet every word carried the weight of a final command.
"Alyra..."
I stiffened. That name. Alyra. I knew it was mine, but every time I heard it, something vibrated at the back of my skull. Like an echo from a place far, far away.
"Come closer."
I obeyed. My knees touched the edge of the bed.
The Count's eyes opened. Slowly. His lids were heavy. His pupils—a faded grey—locked onto mine. And for a fleeting moment, I saw something there. Not love. Not affection. But something deeper.
Trust.
Strange. I couldn't even remember the last time I had spoken to this man.
"Listen..." his voice was nearly swallowed by his own wheezing. "You... you will lead this family."
I blinked. "What?"
"My will..." The Count coughed violently. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Alyra... you are the Head of House Varen... once I am gone."
The Head of the Family? Me? Not his eldest son standing outside with eyes full of hatred?
I wanted to ask. I wanted to protest. But my voice was lodged in my throat.
Not because I was moved. Not because I was sad.
But because something was happening inside my head.
A ringing sound. High-pitched. Deafening.
Instinctively, I clutched my head, fingers digging into my hair. The world began to spin. The image of the Count blurred. The stone walls warped. The candles danced too fast.
"Boss... please..."
That voice. Where was it coming from?
"Boss, I have kids..."
Who was speaking? The voice was heavy, desperate. It didn't belong to anyone in this castle.
Then, another voice. My own. But different. Lower. Colder. Crueler.
"You should have thought of that before you betrayed me."
BANG.
I jolted. My eyes snapped open. I was still in the Count's room, still by his bed. But cold sweat drenched my temples.
What was that?
"My Lady?" The Head Butler looked at me with concern. "My Lady, are you—"
I didn't hear the rest of his sentence.
Because at that exact moment, the Count exhaled his final breath. His chest rose once. Fell. And stopped.
Silence.
Then, before my eyes, a translucent blue rectangle appeared.
I blinked. Once. Twice. It didn't vanish. It... floated. Right in front of my face. Like a glass window I couldn't touch.
Upon it, letters flickered in unstable white light.
[ SOUL GUIDE SYSTEM – EMERGENCY MODE ]
[ Reboot failed. Data corrupted. ]
[ Identity Detected: Alyra Varen. ]
[ Status: Widow of Count ███████ Varen. ]
[ ERROR: Soul does not match the vessel. ]
[ ERROR: Past life data ████████ — LOCKED. ]
I stared at the screen. My breath hitched.
System?
Corrupted data?
Soul mismatch?
"My Lady!" The Head Butler shook my shoulder gently. "My Lady, the Count is gone. We must— My Lady? MY LADY!"
His voice grew distant, fading into a hum.
The blue screen flickered one last time.
[ WARNING: System entering sleep mode for data recovery. ]
[ Estimated time: Unknown. ]
[ Final Message: Trust no one. Including yourself. ]
And then... darkness.
I didn't know how long I was unconscious.
All I knew was that when I opened my eyes, I was lying in a different bed. Smaller. Harder. Not the Count's.
A wooden ceiling with a dusty crystal chandelier stared back at me.
My head felt heavy, as if filled with lead. Something was missing. Something vital. Like a key dropped into a deep well—I knew it was there, but I couldn't reach it.
The door opened.
Six figures entered. The same faces from the corridor. They surrounded my bed, watching me with a cocktail of expressions—coldness, anxiety, curiosity, fear.
The eldest, the young man with the hard jaw, spoke first.
"Mother."
A single word. But his tone was like a blunt knife. Not sharp, but enough to leave a bruise.
"Father is dead. The funeral will be held tomorrow." He paused, his eyes pinning me down. "And regarding his will... we need to talk."
I looked at them, one by one.
Six children. Six strangers. They called me Mother.
I opened my mouth to ask, to say something, but no words came out.
Because I didn't remember.
I didn't remember who they were.
I didn't remember how I got here.
I didn't even remember... who I was.