(3rd person's POV)
The Thornfell estate loomed like a fortress at the edge of the Cindraline Mountains. Mist clung to its spires, and iron gates sealed the path behind them as the carriage rolled to a halt. Seraphina, bound and weary, was led through arched stone corridors into the belly of her new prison.
The scent of blood and steel clung to the walls. Echoes of clashing blades rang faintly in the distance, and from the shadows, eyes watched her—curious, hostile, amused. This wasn't a noble household. It was a training ground. A crucible for monsters.
Antoinette Thornfell moved ahead with predatory elegance, not once glancing back at her new acquisition. Seraphina followed, silent and calculating, every nerve alight with unease. This world… she had read about it.
She remembered "Loving the Cold Emperor."
The world she now inhabited—Elarion—had been nothing more than an escapist fantasy novel to her just months ago. A paperback she'd purchased at the airport to kill time on a vacation trip. She had devoured the pages quickly, curious about the brooding dark king Zephyrion (the ultimate villain of the story), charmed by the golden heroine Elara, loving the cold but caring Emperor Aurelius, and utterly disgusted by the villainess Seraphina Elyndra Sebastienne.
And now she was her.
Bits and pieces from the book filtered through her mind like glass fragments reassembling. The world of noble houses, magical bloodlines, sacred relics… It had been fiction. But now the pain in her limbs and the heat of the brand on her shoulder were horrifyingly real.
"This way," snapped a guard behind her.
They led her into a stone chamber—a cell, though cleaner than the dungeon she had awakened in. A narrow cot sat in one corner, and a washbasin stood next to it. A coarse uniform had been laid out for her.
"You'll rise at dawn," the guard grunted. "Training begins at first light. Disobey and you'll regret it."
The door slammed shut behind him.
Seraphina stood in silence, the low torchlight flickering over her bruised features. She touched her face gingerly, then reached for the uniform. Rough fabric. No underclothes. No shoes. Just enough to strip away dignity and keep her breathing.
She sat on the cot and leaned back, her mind unraveling with memory.
Seraphina Elyndra Sebastienne had been beautiful, terrifying, and utterly merciless in the book. The daughter of Marquess Gregor Sebastienne, she had wielded dark magic and political clout to torment Elara at every turn. She had poisoned suitors, plotted against the royal family, and allied herself with questionable forces in a bid to claim power.
But what the book hadn't shown—what Sophia now experienced—was the fear. The uncertainty. The exhaustion. The bone-deep ache of existing inside someone hated by the world.
"I'm not her," she whispered. "I'm not that monster."
But the mirror above the basin told another story. Silver-white hair, cut unevenly at the ends, framed a face with sharp cheekbones and violet eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. That cursed beauty had once commanded entire battalions. And now it was hers.
She had to think—had to plan.
If this followed the plot of the novel, Elara Wyntermere would still be in the Holy Capital, just beginning her rise as the beloved Saintess. Emperor Aurelius, the original male lead, hasn't yet fallen in love with the female lead. Zephyrion would still be hiding in the shadows of the Southern Wastes. The major arcs hadn't happened yet.
That meant she had time.
Time to change the future. Time to survive.
Seraphina lay back on the cot, her heart pounding. If she remembered correctly, Seraphina was supposed to remain in the Marquess's house for another month before the arc started and attempt to assassinate Elara a year after. The fact that she was already sold into slavery was a drastic deviation from the story.
Had someone rewritten the narrative?
She rubbed the brand on her shoulder. The iron had burned straight through the threads of fate, she remembered. That mark had existed in the book. But not the Thornfell estate. Was this world truly the same as the novel? Or was it changing around her?
Whether it is or not, she still has to survive. She doesn't want to die the second time around.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
That night, dreams flooded her.
She stood in a field of fire, surrounded by screaming voices. Her hands were slick with blood. Shadows loomed over her—fanged, clawed, laughing. Chains wrapped around her wrists, dragging her into darkness. And in the distance, a girl with golden hair stood on a pedestal of light, eyes wide with pity.
"Elara…" Seraphina murmured in her sleep.
The next morning came like a slap to the face.
Water was dumped on her after the door swung open. A girl with flame-colored hair scowled at her from the doorway. "Up. You're late."
Seraphina blinked, groggy. "Late for what?"
"Orientation." The girl tossed her a pair of boots. "Name's Mirielle. I'm in charge of new recruits. Just a piece of advice... If you survive training, you might survive the Thornfell Gauntlet. Remember that!"
Seraphina dragged herself upright and forced the boots on.
Outside, the training grounds bustled with bodies. Dozens of men and women—some barely teenagers, others hardened veterans—moved in unison under the barking commands of armored instructors. Rows of weapons gleamed under the sun. Magic crackled in the air—contained, lethal, and watching.
Antoinette Thornfell stood on a high balcony, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"Everyone here was purchased," Mirielle explained as she walked beside Seraphina. "Most were criminals. A few were nobles fallen from grace, just like you. We train to kill, to spy, to infiltrate, to survive... and most of all, to protect the empire. If you're weak, you'll die. If you're strong, you might earn your freedom."
Seraphina narrowed her eyes. "What does she want with me?"
Mirielle gave a crooked grin. "Lady Thornfell collects broken things. She reforges them into weapons. You're special, though. She paid triple for you. Why, I wonder?"
Seraphina had no answer. But she felt it—the weight of expectation. Of being watched.
As the day's drills began, Seraphina was thrown into the fray without mercy. She was forced to fight with dull blades against larger opponents. Every mistake was punished. Every success was met with silence. Her body screamed in protest, but her mind remained razor sharp.
Memories of sword forms, magical sigils, noble etiquette, and court politics resurfaced one after another. Things Seraphina Sebastienne had known. Things she now knew.
She stumbled back to her cell that night, bloodied and bruised, but alive.
That night, she didn't dream of fire.
She dreamed of a dark throne beneath a starless sky. A figure cloaked in shadows sat atop it, face obscured, voice low.
"I see you, girl," the voice murmured. "Even if you don't see yourself."
She awoke with a gasp, her heart thundering.
Something inside her stirred. Something old. Something vast. She could feel it—coiled beneath her skin, whispering from her blood.
This wasn't just about survival anymore.
Something dark had begun to awaken within her.
********
Cold wind howled through the open courtyard, carrying with it the bite of iron and sweat. Seraphina stood barefoot on the frost-laced stone, her breathing ragged as blood trickled from a cut on her cheek. Before her, a towering man in black armor raised his practice sword again, and she had no time to flinch.
The blade came down. She moved—just enough.
Pain still bloomed across her arm as the wooden edge cracked against her skin. But she didn't fall.
"Again," barked the instructor.
She staggered upright, every muscle in her body burning. It had been three days since she arrived at the Thornfell estate. Three days of relentless training, sleep-deprived nights, and bone-deep exhaustion. Her body, once pampered and protected, now bore bruises like war medals.
"You fight like a spoiled cat," the instructor sneered. "That's what you were, wasn't it? A lady?" He spat the word like poison.
Seraphina said nothing. Words had long since become useless in this place. The Thornfell estate did not care for titles or pleasantries. Here, you were either useful or discarded.
Lady Antoinette Thornfell, her mysterious purchaser, had spoken only once to her since the auction. "Earn your place," she had said coldly. "Or lose it."
There were no further instructions. Only pain. Only the gauntlet.
The Thornfell Gauntlet, they called it. An endless cycle of training, missions, and mental trials meant to forge killers out of the discarded and the damned. Seraphina had been thrown straight into the fire.
And yet, something had changed within her. With every strike she endured, every humiliating fall, the fog around her soul began to thin. She was remembering things—not just as Sophia, the girl who once read this twisted novel, but as Seraphina Sebastienne.
Or rather, the person who had become Seraphina.
There were flickers. Flashes of cruel laughter, of blood-soaked ballroom floors, of flames devouring everything she once knew. And within those glimpses, a shadow lurked—something dark, something old.
"Rest," the instructor finally said, not out of mercy, but duty. He turned away without another glance.
Seraphina stumbled to the edge of the courtyard and collapsed against the wall, her body trembling with effort. A girl about her age, thin and wiry with sharp eyes, approached and handed her a flask.
"You lasted longer today," the girl said.
Seraphina drank greedily, ignoring the bitter taste. "That's not saying much."
"It is here. Most don't last a week."
Seraphina studied the girl. "What's your name?"
"Lira, I was purchased two years ago." She sat beside her, glancing up at the gray sky. "Don't expect kindness. Thornfell molds you into something they can use. That's all."
Seraphina lowered the flask. "And what if I want to be more than a weapon?"
Lira looked at her with a flicker of something like amusement. "Then you'll need to survive long enough to change the rules."
That night, sleep did not come easily. Her body ached in every joint, and the straw mattress offered no relief. But the moment her eyes finally drifted shut, the nightmares returned.
She stood again in a burning palace. Blood pooled at her feet. Screams echoed from distant halls. And at the heart of it all, a mirror—cracked, glowing, and whispering.
"She must burn. The villainess must burn."
She awoke drenched in sweat, fingers clenched into fists.
Something inside her was wrong.
And the Thornfell Gauntlet, cruel as it was, was forging her into something new.
Not Seraphina Sebastienne.
Not Sophia Benette.
Something that she doesn't know yet.
*******