Annabelle had long since learned that survival was not for the weak. From the moment she transmigrated into The Prince and the Poor Lady, she had watched, listened, and sharpened her mind like a blade. Unlike the protagonist, Elvianne, who had suffered quietly, Annabelle refused to be a victim.
She saw the world for what it was—a ruthless game of power, deception, and survival. And nothing, nothing, was more dangerous than the two creatures lurking beneath polished smiles: Elara Voss and Lucian Calderon.
They hid behind masks of nobility, but their words dripped venom. Their ambitions were not about power—they were about destruction.
Annabelle had spent months cultivating her place in the capital, building a web of connections that could fortify her position in this unstable world. She had become adept at picking up on the smallest of shifts—quiet conversations, subtle glances exchanged across crowded rooms. All of it was valuable, all of it was ammunition for a war she hadn't yet fully understood.
But that night—oh, that night—was when everything changed.
It had started as a typical evening in the capital. The sky was painted a muted gray as the city slowly sank into the cold embrace of twilight. Annabelle had spent the day browsing through the most reputable jewelers in the city. Her mind was already calculating the risks and rewards of various investments, noting the rising interest in enchanted jewelry that could protect against magical threats.
She'd gathered enough information to fill her journal with new strategies and possible trades, but now, as the night deepened and rain began to slant down from the heavens, Annabelle made her way toward a nearby alley to avoid the crowds. She was drenched before she could reach the shelter of an old archway.
The downpour obscured most of the noises from the street, but as she turned to adjust her cloak, a voice reached her ears—a voice she recognized.
"Elvianne is still so pathetic."
Annabelle froze, her heart stopping for a single, horrifying beat. The voice belonged to none other than Elara Voss.
Through the cracks in the crumbling stone, Annabelle dared to peer out into the gloom. There they were: Elara and Lucian Calderon, standing in the rain like two shadowy figures. Their posture was relaxed, as if the storm didn't touch them, and the dangerous conversation that followed sent shivers down Annabelle's spine.
"She's still waiting for the gods to hand her justice," Elara continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "She could have killed me a hundred times over, but instead, she plays the martyr."
Lucian chuckled, the sound dark and cold. "A weakling playing noble. Cassian's no better—wrapped in his own righteousness. Let's see how strong his convictions are when we rip everything away."
Annabelle's pulse quickened as the realization hit her. These weren't just the words of power-hungry nobles. This wasn't just about taking the throne. No, this was something far more sinister. Elara and Lucian were plotting destruction. They wanted to burn everything down. They wanted to ruin not just the royal family but everyone—the nobility, the capital, the very foundations of Zyphera itself.
Her breath hitched as her eyes flicked to the figures of the two nobles standing before her. There was no innocence in them, no pretense of duty. Their masks of nobility were just that—masks. And the faces beneath them were twisted with a thirst for chaos, for pain. It wasn't just ambition that drove them; it was something far darker, a hunger to tear apart everything that stood in their way.
Annabelle's chest tightened as she stepped back, her foot landing on a loose stone. The sound was soft, barely audible above the rain, but it was enough.
Elara's gaze snapped toward the archway.
Annabelle held her breath, praying she hadn't been heard. The moments stretched like an eternity as she slowly retreated into the storm, her heart hammering in her chest.
It wasn't until she was a good distance away, deep in the heart of the city's twisting alleyways, that she allowed herself to breathe again. She could still hear the echo of Lucian's laughter, low and cruel, taunting her from the depths of the shadows.