The main hall of Varnholt Manor was a display of opulence that would have made even the wealthiest merchant from Emilia’s orphanage blush. Wrought iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting light over a long table draped with an embroidered linen cloth. Silver platters gleamed beneath heaps of food: roasted venison with herbs, onion and cheese tarts, candied fruits that looked like jewels. The aroma was intoxicating, but for Emilia, who had grown up rationing watery soup, the abundance felt almost obscene.

  She sat in her assigned place, between Lysa and one of her younger sisters, a shy girl named Mina who barely lifted her eyes from her plate. Across from her, Lord Falke’s envoys—two middle-aged men in velvet tunics with calculating expressions—conversed with Baron Dietrich. Lady Isolde, at the far end of the table, smiled with practiced elegance, though her eyes scanned the room like a hawk searching for prey. Celeste’s other sisters—Elara, the eldest, with her regal bearing; Freya, the second, with a laugh like chiming bells; and the twins Livia and Sylvia, whispering to each other—filled the space with a mix of rivalry and charm. The manor was a battlefield disguised as a banquet, and Emilia knew it.

  She had traded her leather trousers for a dark green dress that Lysa had practically forced her to wear, its bodice so tight she could barely breathe. The outfit was a cage, but also armor. If she was to play Celeste, she had to look the part. Yet under the table, her hands trembled slightly. Her knuckles, still red from training with Gavril, were a reminder of her true goal: not this banquet, not these intrigues, but the strength to survive in a world where dungeons could swallow you whole.

  “And so, Celeste?” Lysa’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. “You haven’t said a word. Is the venison not to your liking, or are you just plotting how to ruin someone’s day?”

  Emilia turned to her, forcing a smile she hoped looked arrogant rather than nervous. “I’m just enjoying the show, Lysa. Not all of us need to talk to be the center of attention.”

  Lysa blinked, clearly taken aback by the retort, but before she could respond, Elara interjected from across the table. “Leave her alone, Lysa. Celeste never has anything interesting to say.” Her tone was sweet, but the words were pure venom.

  Emilia pressed her lips together, suppressing the urge to snap back. In her past life, she would have ignored the insults and kept working. But here, in this nest of vipers, silence could be seen as weakness. “Maybe I don’t talk because I’m tired of hearing nonsense,” she said, keeping her voice low but firm. “Not all of us need to show off to feel important, Elara.”

  A tense silence fell over the table. Mina dropped her spoon with a clink, and the twins exchanged an amused glance. Baron Dietrich raised an eyebrow but said nothing, while Lady Isolde let out a forced laugh. “My, Celeste, what a temper. I hope our guests aren’t offended by your… manners.”

  Lord Falke’s envoys, a stout man named Sir Roland and a thin one with spectacles named Maester Cedric, smiled politely. “Not at all, my lady,” Roland said, his voice dripping with condescension. “The passion of youth is a charm in itself. Though I’m surprised to see Miss Celeste so… restrained. Her reputation precedes her.”

  Emilia felt a stab of panic. Celeste’s reputation was a minefield: a cruel girl, prone to outbursts of rage and humiliating anyone who crossed her path. She couldn’t afford to act like her, but she also couldn’t be too different without raising suspicion. “People change, Sir Roland,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Or maybe I’m just tired of rumors.”

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  Roland laughed, but his eyes didn’t leave her, as if dissecting every word. Emilia took a sip of wine to mask her discomfort, feeling the weight of every gaze. She needed to get out of this banquet as soon as possible.

  The rest of the lunch was an exhausting dance of courtesies and veiled barbs. Emilia managed to maintain her Celeste mask, responding with enough sarcasm to stay in character without crossing into the cruelty everyone expected. When she finally excused herself, claiming a headache, Lysa gave her a suspicious look but said nothing. Emilia left the hall with her back straight, feeling the family’s eyes like daggers in her back.

  Instead of returning to her room, she headed to the back courtyard. The fresh air was a relief after the stifling atmosphere of the banquet. The courtyard was deserted, save for a pair of ravens pecking at the remnants of a forgotten roll. Emilia approached the training dummy, now more battered after her session with Gavril. Her hands still ached, but the thought of staying still, of letting the manor consume her with its intrigues, was unbearable.

  She closed her eyes, recalling Gavril’s instructions: Use your weight, not just your arms. Feel the flow of the aura. She struck the dummy—once, twice, three times, each hit stronger than the last. The warm energy she had felt the previous day returned, clearer this time, like a slow river running through her veins. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Each strike was a declaration: she wasn’t the Celeste everyone knew, nor the spoiled girl who crumbled at the first challenge. She was Emilia, and she was here to survive.

  “Back at it again?” Gavril’s voice made her turn. He was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, his expression hovering between amusement and exasperation. “I thought you’d be at the banquet, throwing wine at someone.”

  Emilia wiped the sweat from her brow, panting slightly. “The banquet’s over. And I’d rather do this than listen to my family bicker over who has the most expensive dress.”

  Gavril let out a rough laugh. “Can’t blame you. But if you’re going to train alone, at least do it right.” He approached, adjusting her stance with a firm push. “Your shoulders are too tense. Relax, or you’ll break something.”

  Emilia nodded, following his instructions. They spent the next hour working on basic strikes and stances, with Gavril correcting every mistake with a patience that contrasted with his sarcasm. Despite the ache in her muscles, Emilia felt a spark of progress. The aura, though faint, was beginning to respond, like a muscle waking after years of disuse.

  As they rested, seated on a stone bench, Emilia dared to ask, “What do you know about slimes?”

  Gavril raised an eyebrow. “Slimes? Those slimy things that live in dungeons? They’re weak, but a nuisance if you’re careless. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” Emilia said, keeping her tone casual. She wasn’t ready to share her plans, not yet. But the idea of taming a slime, of having an ally in this brutal world, was growing clearer in her mind. If slimes were malleable, they could be tools, weapons, even companions. And she was going to need all the help she could get.

  Gavril gave her a suspicious look but didn’t press. “You’re weird, princess. Weirder than you used to be, and that’s saying something.” He stood, brushing the dust off his trousers. “Tomorrow, same time. And don’t be late, or I’ll make you run until you puke.”

  Emilia smiled, despite her exhaustion. “I won’t be late.”

  As Gavril walked away, she looked at the sky, now tinged orange by the sunset. The manor, with its intrigues and masks, waited inside. The dungeons, with their monsters and promises of death, waited below. But for the first time since waking in this world, Emilia felt she had a path. It wouldn’t be easy, it wouldn’t be quick, but she would walk it. Step by step, strike by strike, until she could claim the life she’d always wanted: a life where, perhaps, she could finally rest.