She wasn't dead.
But this wasn't life either.
Celeste's eyes flew open to a vaulted ceiling she didn't recognize—arched beams carved with gold filigree and a chandelier that glittered like frozen stars. She lay in a bed far too soft, swaddled in sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and something older, something ancient.
Her breath caught.
Where am I?
She sat up sharply—too sharply—and gasped.
Her arms… were small.
Too small.
She threw off the covers and stared in stunned horror at the hands in her lap—tiny, delicate, the nails buffed and perfect, not worn and calloused like the ones that once pulled babies into the world.
Her heart pounded in her throat.
A mirror stood across the room.
She stumbled out of bed, legs unsteady. The floor was cold marble. Her silk nightgown whispered against her knees as she moved closer, closer—
And stared into the face of a stranger.
A girl.
Ten years old. Pale, with luminous grey eyes framed by lashes too long. Hair the color of spun gold, curled and combed with surgical precision.
And yet… the eyes were hers.
Her eyes. Celeste's mind behind them, frantic and racing.
"No," she whispered. "This… this isn't…"
But it was.
The room was huge, absurdly so. Gilded mirrors, velvet drapes, wardrobes taller than hospital walls. Oil paintings of noble ancestors lined the walls, every face carrying a hint of the same sharp cheekbones and aristocratic coldness.
A jewelry box rested on a nearby dresser, overflowing with gems. Beyond the balcony, the gardens stretched endlessly in manicured rows of rose and lilac.
She reached for the heavy curtains.
No sounds from outside. No city hum. No ambulances. No car horns. No life she knew.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
---
Where were the servants?
The door hadn't opened once. No one had checked on her. No footsteps in the hall. Just the oppressive silence and this crushing weight in her chest.
Until she remembered—
The novel.
She'd read it the night she collapsed. Just before everything faded. Just before her heart gave out, she'd reached the final chapter and cursed the villainess one last time.
That villainess. The Duke's daughter.
The cousin of the Empress.
The one who killed her.
Celeste froze.
"No. No, it can't be."
But the reflection didn't lie.
And this room—ornate, cold, lonely—it fit too perfectly. Every detail matched the girl's world described in the book. The grand estate. The endless wealth. The fearful servants. The girl no one dared love.
She had reincarnated.
Into her.
The villainess.
A child, yes—but a child destined to poison an empire.
Celeste backed away from the mirror, panic scraping her ribs.
This wasn't just another life.
It was a trap.
And she had no idea how to escape it.
The floor was colder than she expected.
Her toes—delicate, too clean—curled against the polished marble as she crept away from the mirror. Each step echoed like a drop of water in an empty well. No sound followed her. No eyes watched her. And that, more than anything, felt wrong.
She opened the door.
The hallway beyond stretched out in both directions—endless, ornate, with high arches and tall windows that filtered in warm, golden light. Dust motes danced like spirits in the sunbeams.
No guards.
No maids.
Nothing.
Celeste moved carefully, her hand brushing against the wall for balance. Her body felt so light, so thin. Her knees wobbled every few steps. She was used to running from OR to ER, to the NICU and back—used to carrying a life in her arms without faltering.
This body could barely support her own.
She caught her breath at the end of the hall, where a tall window overlooked the inner courtyard. She pressed a small palm to the glass.
Gardens. Fountains. Sculpted hedges in the shape of gryphons and roses. And far beyond, the edge of the estate—lined with pale stone walls and guards in fine armor, unmoving as statues.
This is real, she thought. Too real.
---
The moment dragged.
Curiosity won over fear, and she padded down another corridor. The silence was a hum now—thick and strange, like a house that had forgotten how to breathe. Her fingers traced the wallpaper, pale blue with silver threads that shimmered as she passed.
She opened another door. A library.
Bigger than the hospital's archives.
Books lined the walls, floor to ceiling, bound in leather and velvet, some etched in gold. A faint scent of ink and candle wax lingered in the air. A single book lay on the table, closed, with a ribbon marking the last page.
"A Study of Imperial Lineage."
She didn't touch it.
She left the library and wandered further. Past empty salons. Music rooms. A gallery of portraits that stared down with proud, empty eyes.
No footsteps behind her. No voices ahead.
It took her far too long to realize—
They're avoiding me.
She stopped in the middle of a massive hall.
And laughed. Just once. A bitter, bewildered sound from a ten-year-old's throat.
"They're afraid of me," she said aloud.
Not because she was dangerous now.
But because of who this girl was going to become.
The villainess.
The snake in silk.
The one who would one day bring down an Empress with poison in a wineglass.
---
Celeste clutched her small arms around herself and stood in that cold, echoing silence. A noble girl's body wrapped around a surgeon's soul. Fragile on the outside, but burning on the inside with confusion, dread, and the sick understanding that…
She couldn't go back.
There was no hospital.
No sterile white lights.
No Celestia.
No piano.
No Persephone'.
No life left to wake up from.
Only this one.
And no one to trust.
She turned back toward the corridor, intending to return to her room—if only because it was the only place that didn't feel like a museum. Her thin legs were beginning to tremble. Her head throbbed faintly from the strain of walking more than her small frame could bear.
That was when she heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Hesitant.
Celeste froze mid-step, her hand still resting on the curve of a column. The footsteps paused too. She didn't breathe.
And then—there.
A maid, barely more than a girl herself, peeked from behind a far corner.
The moment their eyes met, the girl flinched.
Not in surprise.
In fear.
Celeste blinked, stunned. "Wait—"
The girl ducked her head and dropped into a full, trembling curtsy so quickly it was as though she had practiced it a hundred times.
"M-My Lady," she whispered. Her voice shook. "Please forgive me. I-I didn't know you were awake…"
Celeste took a step forward. The maid took a step back.
"Wait," she said again, gentler this time. "What's your name?"
The girl flinched again—this time more violently. "I—I'm not allowed to speak unless spoken to. Properly. I—please, don't punish me, My Lady."
Punish her?
The words turned her stomach.
Celeste swallowed. "I'm not going to punish you. I just—"
She paused, choosing her words carefully. Every instinct screamed at her to handle this like she would in the ER—with clarity, with control, with calm.
"I feel unwell. I think I hit my head. I don't remember anything. Not even… my name."
The girl's wide eyes flicked up, startled. And for a flicker of a second—just a heartbeat—there was something else in them. Curiosity. Confusion. Maybe even hope.
But it was gone as fast as it came.
"You… you are Lady Elira," the maid said quickly, almost breathlessly, like it was a sin to even hesitate. "Daughter of Duke Vaelthorn. First cousin to Her Majesty, the Empress."
Elira.
Of course. That was the villainess's name.
The name she had cursed on the last page of the novel.
Celeste—Elira—breathed out slowly. "Alright. And you are?"
"Lilia, My Lady," she whispered. "I was assigned to your service last month."
Celeste nodded, carefully. "Thank you, Lilia. Would you… mind walking me back to my room? I'm still not feeling very strong."
The girl looked as though Celeste had asked her to walk across hot coals. But she nodded, too quickly, and turned without a word.
Celeste followed.
Neither of them spoke again.
But Celeste felt the space between them widen with every step—not in distance, but in fear. In history. In the unspoken knowledge that this child's presence had once brought pain.
And now that same child—her—was lost in the ruins of a future she hadn't yet committed.
The walk back to her room was short, but it felt like crossing into another world. Lilia's silence stretched like a taut wire. Every few seconds, Celeste caught the girl glancing sideways at her, as though waiting for her to lash out. Maybe she was used to cruelty. Maybe Elira—the original Elira—had made her flinch for a reason.
When they reached the door, Lilia opened it with a small bow, eyes averted. Celeste stepped back into the room she'd woken up in—gold, velvet, glittering crystal—a cage dressed like a palace.
"Lilia," she said, quietly.
The girl froze mid-step, still holding the edge of the door.
Celeste hesitated. She could feel the way her words had weight now—too much weight for a ten-year-old voice. So she kept them soft, careful. The same tone she used with panicked mothers in the NICU.
"I'm not angry. I'm… just confused. Please don't be afraid of me."
Lilia's fingers trembled slightly on the doorknob. But she gave a quick curtsy again and backed away without a word, pulling the door shut behind her.
And once more, she was alone.
Celeste turned slowly, letting her eyes sweep the room again—this time, not as a stranger, but as someone who had to understand.
She moved to the vanity and sat down in the velvet-cushioned chair. Her reflection stared back at her—ethereal, too elegant for a child. The kind of face you might see in a museum painting titled Duchess of Ruin.
So.
She was Lady Elira Vaelthorn.
The cousin of the Empress.
The villainess of the story she had just finished reading.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
The timeline.
In the novel, Elira's descent didn't begin until she was sixteen, when the Empress's sister—Seraphine—emerged as a threat. The story hadn't even started yet.
Celeste—or Elira—was ten.
That gave her six years.
Six years before everything would spiral into manipulation, betrayal, and ultimately, murder.
She had six years to prevent it.
If she could.
---
Her stomach tightened.
She was still adjusting to the fact that this was real. That this wasn't a vivid hallucination from a failing brain, or some morphine-induced fantasy. The mind rebels, she knew. And yet, every breath of lavender air, every ache in her too-small body told her this was no dream.
Celeste leaned forward, pressing her elbows on the vanity, her head resting in her hands. "Okay," she whispered to her reflection. "Okay. Think."
This world had rules. Power. Bloodlines. Political alliances. She needed knowledge. She needed a plan. And she needed to understand who this child—Elira—was before she changed her.
Because people feared her. Feared a ten-year-old.
Which meant the monster already existed.
Celeste frowned. "What the hell did you do, Elira?"
No answer. Just her reflection, staring back—eyes wide, stormy with thought. She had faced hemorrhaging patients, ruptured placentas, NICU emergencies that lasted ten hours straight.
But nothing like this.
She was a surgeon.
Now trapped in the body of a noble child, destined to destroy an empire.
She stood from the vanity, her knees a little steadier this time.
Something had been bothering her ever since she heard the name Vaelthorn. In the novel, Elira had a much younger brother—a boy ten years her junior. He'd only appeared a few times, sweet and quiet, a shadow too small to affect the plot. He was barely three when the Empress died. And Elira… she died long before he grew up.
Celeste frowned.
If she was ten now… then either he had just been born—or their mother was pregnant.
She turned toward the door and hesitated just a second before opening it. The hallway was empty. No guards. No nurses. Just cold polished stone and long drapes fluttering faintly in the breeze.
"Lilia?" she called, not too loud. "Lilia, are you still nearby?"
The silence stretched.
But after a moment, soft footsteps approached. And there she was again—the servant girl, peeking nervously from around the corridor's edge.
Celeste offered what she hoped was a non-threatening smile. "It's alright. I just have a question."
Lilia stepped closer, her hands clasped in front of her pale apron.
Celeste tilted her head. "My… mother. The Duchess. Is she… well?"
Lilia's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. "Yes, My Lady. She's well. The physician visits her daily."
Celeste's pulse quickened. "She's pregnant, isn't she?"
Lilia blinked. The hesitation was enough.
Celeste stepped closer. "I remember," she lied gently, "that she was… expecting. I just wasn't sure if—"
"She's nearly due," Lilia said quietly. "We were told the child will arrive within the month."
Within the month.
So the baby brother hadn't been born yet.
A flicker of memory from the novel floated through Celeste's mind—Elira had died not long after he was born, in the wake of the civil unraveling she herself had helped cause.
She remembered now: the baby boy had cried in the background of the final scene. Too young to understand that his sister had died disgraced.
A soft breath escaped her lips. She nodded. "Thank you, Lilia."
"Shall I send word to the Duchess?" the girl asked quickly. "Tell her you've awakened?"
Celeste paused.
She didn't know what kind of relationship Elira had with her mother. But based on Lilia's cautious tone… it wasn't warm.
"No. Not yet." She managed a smile. "Let her rest. I'll go to her when I'm ready."
Lilia gave another quick bow and stepped back, vanishing as quickly as she'd come.
Celeste turned, retreating back into her room—her mind now racing.
A mother near labor.
A child on the edge of birth.
A new variable.
And perhaps… a new reason to live.
Because even if this world wasn't her own, and even if she'd been dropped into the skin of its greatest villainess… there was still a child coming into it. An innocent. One she might protect. One she might save.
She sat again at the edge of the bed, heart thudding, head bent.
Elira had destroyed everything.
But maybe, just maybe, Celeste could rewrite the ending.
The next day, Celeste made her way toward the Duchess's chambers with cautious determination. She had to know. She had to understand what happened to her mother in the novel—and how she could possibly change it.
The Duchess had died just after giving birth to Elira's younger brother when Elira was ten. The details were sparse in the book, but the cause was clear enough—complications during childbirth. There was no mention of a stepmother before the birth, no sense of any threat beyond the tragedy of the delivery itself.
But Celeste couldn't ignore the deep sense of dread that gnawed at her, an instinct that told her she needed to know everything.
Lilia, who had been hovering in the halls, had made sure to pass along the message that the Duchess was resting—still tired from the rigors of carrying the child and the lingering symptoms of pregnancy. Celeste had been given leave to visit at her convenience.
The doors to her mother's chambers opened with a soft, almost reverent creak. The room inside was grand, though far less opulent than Celeste's own. Fewer jewels. More quiet warmth. A large bed draped in thick, embroidered fabrics. A fire crackled softly in the hearth. And at the center of it all—her mother, Duchess Evaline Vaelthorn, reclined in an armchair beside the fire, a velvet shawl wrapped around her delicate shoulders.
She looked so… fragile. Too soft for the character in Celeste's mind.
Celeste hesitated in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. The novel had given her so little to work with regarding the Duchess—only that her death had been a quiet affair, a fading presence in Elira's life. The main focus was always on the child who would become the villainess, not the woman who gave birth to her.
But now… now, in the flesh, the Duchess was alive. Celeste's mother—yet a stranger.
"Mother…" Celeste's voice felt too soft for her, too unsure. She winced at how the word felt on her tongue.
The Duchess's head turned toward her, her pale blue eyes squinting a little, as though she hadn't expected a visit. She smiled faintly, the edges of her lips curling in a way that reminded Celeste of the frailty of a dying leaf.
"Elira," she greeted, her voice warm but distant. "How do you feel today?"
Celeste stepped into the room, her movements measured. "I feel… better. The dizziness has passed."
The Duchess nodded, her gaze flicking downward briefly. "I'm glad to hear that. You must have been through quite an ordeal. You've been through so much already… with your father away."
Celeste tried not to flinch at the mention of her father. The Duke, a man of little warmth, had been an absent figure in the novel's description. Her only interactions with him had been when he'd demanded Elira to perform her duties or attend to her growing power in the kingdom.
But right now, her focus was on the mother in front of her.
She needed to ask. The question she had been dreading.
"How… is the baby?" Celeste asked, her voice quiet.
The Duchess's expression softened, her hands resting on her rounded belly. "The baby is healthy. I feel him moving more each day. Another son, just as your father wanted."
Celeste's heart twisted in her chest. Another son. The younger brother who would take the place of everything she was supposed to inherit.
And yet… the thought of losing her mother, of witnessing her death in this world, began to churn in Celeste's mind.
The novel had made it clear—the Duchess had died after childbirth. It was a cold fact. One she'd had no control over.
But this time—this time—she could change it. Somehow.
"Mother," she began again, this time with more courage. "Have you… consulted the physician? The one who will assist with your birth?"
The Duchess's expression shifted slightly. "I have. The family physician is very well-prepared for my care. You need not worry."
Celeste swallowed, a knot forming in her throat. "I know you've had many children before, but… are you sure? What if something goes wrong? What if you—"
"Don't be silly, Elira." The Duchess's tone softened, but there was an edge of finality in her words. "I've had children before. Your brother will come into the world just fine. Your father insists everything be perfect. I don't expect complications."
Celeste's heart was pounding in her chest. She could feel the truth settle heavily in her bones. This was it. This was the moment. This was when everything would fall apart.
She had to stop it. Had to prevent what she already knew would happen.
But there was something wrong with the way her mother spoke. Something wrong in the way she dismissed her fears.
And deep down, Celeste knew—there was something darker she wasn't seeing. Something hidden beneath the surface, behind the fragile face of the Duchess.
She was terrified of what came next.
Celeste remained silent, watching her mother carefully as she fidgeted with the edge of her shawl, still lost in thought. There was something in the air—something unspoken. A tension she couldn't place.
The Duchess's gaze flicked down to her stomach, her hand brushing lightly over it as if she could will the baby to settle, to stay calm.
"You've been very worried about me, Elira," she said after a moment, her voice carrying a quiet sadness. "I appreciate it, but there's no need. I'm just tired. I'll rest now."
But Celeste wasn't reassured. The woman's exhaustion was palpable. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her shawl, her breath a little too shallow. The way she shifted in the chair—it wasn't right.
Celeste had seen this before. That subtle weariness. That edge of something wrong. She had seen it too many times in her patients.
"Mother…" she said again, her voice lower this time, more insistent. "Are you sure? Please, let me—"
But before she could finish, the Duchess gasped sharply, her hand clutching at her belly.
The sound was too sudden, too raw. It startled Celeste to her core.
"Mother?" Celeste's voice broke, panic rising in her chest. She rushed forward, kneeling beside the chair, her hand reaching out to steady her.
The Duchess's eyes were wide now, her face pale as her breathing became erratic. She winced in pain, a sharp hiss escaping her lips as her hands gripped the armrests of the chair.
"What's wrong?" Celeste asked urgently, trying to remain calm. But fear was rising in her chest, squeezing her lungs.
The Duchess's lips parted as though to speak, but no words came out. Her breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and her face contorted with pain.
A terrible, sickening realization started to settle in Celeste's mind. This wasn't just a pregnancy symptom. This was something else. Something far more serious.
Without thinking, Celeste sprang into action. Her hands moved automatically, like they had done countless times in the NICU, like they had done when there was no time to think—just to save.
She reached for the Duchess's wrist, feeling for the pulse. It was fast. Erratic. The beats too weak for comfort.
"Mother, stay with me," Celeste whispered frantically, her heart pounding as she checked for signs of distress. She needed to know the truth. Was it the baby? Was something wrong with the pregnancy? Was the birth coming early? There was too much uncertainty. Too much risk.
The Duchess's hand shook as she placed it over Celeste's, her eyes glazed with pain. "Elira..." she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "Something... is happening."
That's when Celeste heard it. The faint sound of footsteps outside the door.
Then, the door burst open.
"Your Grace! My Lady!" Lilia's voice was a high-pitched panic.
A stream of servants and the physician followed quickly, and for a moment, the room seemed to spiral out of control. The once calm, quiet space was suddenly filled with the sound of frantic voices.
"My Lady! What happened?" Lilia cried, rushing to the Duchess's side.
"The baby... it's coming early," the Duchess whispered, her face contorting in pain again. "Please, hurry. I need—"
The physician rushed forward, immediately assessing the situation. "Prepare the bed!" he shouted. "Get the blankets and towels! Quickly!"
"Mother," Celeste choked out, her eyes wide with fear. She was already bracing herself, pushing through her own panic as she tried to focus on what was happening. "Don't worry, just stay with me. You're going to be okay."
But as the Duchess's body trembled under the strain, Celeste felt a deep dread settle in her chest.
This wasn't part of the plan. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The baby wasn't due yet. She wasn't prepared. The birth was too soon—way too soon.
Her hands trembled as she reached out, her medical instincts still sharp despite the chaos in her mind. She could see the pain on her mother's face, and her heart nearly stopped when she realized—this wasn't just a difficult birth. This wasn't just early labor.
The Duchess was in distress.
It was happening too fast.
Too soon.
And Celeste realized with horror: if she didn't act now, she could lose her mother before she ever had a chance to protect the baby.
But just as she was about to push forward and try to stabilize her mother, the room suddenly grew darker.
A cold chill swept through the chamber. The fire in the hearth flickered as if it couldn't hold onto its heat.
The physician's face went pale as he looked down at the Duchess's belly. "We need to get her to the birthing room. Now. Quickly!"
Everything started moving in a blur—servants scrambling, the physician shouting instructions, Lilia trying to help the Duchess rise.
Celeste felt her world spinning as the intensity of the situation escalated.
Her mind was screaming—No. Not like this. Not again.
But in that moment, as she stood helplessly in the center of the chaos, her mother let out a strangled gasp.
And everything in the room seemed to freeze.
---
End of Chapter Five.