Cold.
That was the first thing she felt. A searing cold that dug into her skin, cruel and unrelenting.
Chains clinked faintly as she stirred, her limbs sluggish and heavy. Darkness surrounded her—thick and pressing. Stone walls closed in, and the air reeked of mildew, rot, and despair. Somewhere in the distance, the low dripping of water echoed, rhythmic like a death knell.
A sharp breath tore from her lips as she forced her eyes open.
She wasn't in her apartment anymore.
Sophia Benett had fallen asleep on her couch with a half-finished energy drink and the latest installment of The Saintess and the Scourge King on her lap. Now she was shackled to a dungeon wall in a threadbare dress, her body bruised and caked in grime.
Panic laced her chest as she looked around. She doesn't understand what's currently happening. She was definitely inside her apartment just a few minutes ago. And now, she wakes up in an unfamiliar place.
Was she kidnapped? Did someone sneak into her apartment and kidnap her? But who would do it?
"No… it can't be," she rasped, her voice rough and unused.
'Oh, come on! You're not even rich nor someone important to be kidnapped.' She rolled her eyes at her own thought.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. Her reflection, dimly cast in a pool of filthy water, stared back. Pale silver hair clung to her face, and violet eyes glinted with unnatural brilliance.
'Wait... Is that me? No. No. This wasn't my face! What the... Did someone do make-up on me? And what's with this hair? Is it a wig? 'She touched her hair and tried to pull it off.
"Aw!" The pain she felt was real. From the hair she pulled and the pain from her cracked lips.
'If this isn't a dream, then what the hell is this? 'She asked herself, confused.
She stared at her reflection on the water again, trying to analyze the situation she's in right now. Did she die? But how? She clearly remembered that she was just reading a book while drinking that energy drink she bought at the convenience store.
'Did it cause a cardiac arrest while I was sleeping? Did I drink too much energy drink? 'She sighed.
"Did I get a reincarnation, just like all those books I've been reading?" she asked herself while thinking of the possibilities.
But if that was the case, then... In what story? She can't quite remember...
'Wait... Wait... This can't be! I know this face.' She stared wide-eyed at her reflection upon her realization.
Seraphina Elyndra Sebastienne.
She knew that face. She had hated that face. The woman who tortured the heroine, who ruined kingdoms, who was destined to die a gruesome death halfway through the novel.
Sophia—no, Seraphina—let out a choking gasp. She clawed at her chest, her heart pounding. The memories of the book surged forward like a dam breaking. Names, faces, histories, and atrocities. Every detail she'd read was now hers.
But why?
Why had she ended up here? Why, Seraphina?
Footsteps interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Metal boots scraped against stone, and the heavy door creaked open. A sliver of torchlight spilled into the dungeon, revealing a cloaked man flanked by two guards.
"She's awake," one of the guards grunted.
The man stepped closer, his face hidden beneath a hood. He carried a scroll in one hand and a branding iron in the other.
Seraphina tensed, her chains clinking. "What do you want?"
"She speaks," the man mused. "That saves time."
She can't help but raise her left eyebrow. 'I am not a mute, duh! '
The scroll unfurled with a flick of his wrist. "Property of House Sebastienne, accused of treason, cruelty, and blasphemy. Condemned to death without trial. Instead, to be sold at the discretion of the Crown."
Her breath hitched. "Sold?"
The man nodded. "Congratulations. You've been chosen for the underground auction. High demand for nobles with combat aptitude. A rare treat."
Her mouth opened to protest, to scream, but no sound emerged. The guards unshackled her with rough hands and yanked her forward. The branding iron hissed as it was pressed to her shoulder, and agony exploded through her body.
She collapsed, trembling, the scent of burnt flesh choking her. The iron left behind a cruel insignia—one she vaguely remembered from the novel. The Mark of the Bound.
"Prepare her for transport," the man ordered, already turning away. "The auction begins at midnight."
The ride was a blur. Cloaked, shackled, and locked in a steel cage, Seraphina was thrown into a carriage with several other captives. Some wept. Others glared with hatred. No one spoke to her.
When the carriage finally stopped, she was dragged through narrow stone corridors beneath a crumbling estate. Whispers filled the air—low, greedy voices discussing the "new stock." Seraphina was shoved into a holding cell where a man with a monocle eyed her like a prized calf.
"She'll fetch a good price. Look at that hair, that build, and that glare—deliciously defiant."
He scribbled something in a ledger.
Time lost all meaning in the dim light. When her cell door opened again, she was dressed in a thin white gown that barely reached her knees. Her wrists and ankles were shackled, but her face was wiped clean. She was led to a raised platform where rows of masked nobles sat in plush seats, their faces shadowed by flickering chandeliers.
The auctioneer's voice boomed. "Lot number 47. A former noble. Combat-trained. Bloodline untainted. Starting bid: 500 aurels."
Seraphina's heart pounded. She scanned the crowd, searching for help, for sympathy—anything.
No one met her eyes.
The bidding began. Voices rose like a storm, clamoring with excitement. The numbers climbed rapidly—800, 1200, 1600.
"Three thousand," came a calm, sharp voice from the back.
Silence rippled through the hall. The masked figure stood, robed in deep burgundy. Female. Poised. Dangerous.
The auctioneer beamed. "Sold to Lady Thornfell."
The chains bit into Seraphina's skin as she was pulled offstage, her fate sealed by a stranger's coin.
Lady Antoinette Thornfell watched her new purchase with unreadable eyes. Her hair was raven-black, coiled into a tight bun, and her lips were painted the color of dried blood. She sat with the grace of nobility, but her presence was predatory.
"You were a marquess's daughter," Antoinette said as they rode in her private carriage. "How fitting that you now belong to a baroness by title but a beastmaster by trade."
Seraphina said nothing.
'As if I wanted to be traded like a non-living creature,' she retorted in her mind.
"You will be trained, broken, rebuilt, and reforged. You'll learn to kill, protect, and obey. You'll be turned into something useful—or you'll die trying."
The carriage rocked gently as the silence settled between them.
Antoinette leaned forward, her voice low. "Do not waste your second life, girl. You may not get another."
****