Dawn at the Varnholt mansion was a spectacle of noise and motion. Emilia woke to the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway, the creak of carts in the courtyard, and the distant murmur of voices haggling over the price of grain. Celeste’s room, with its heavy curtains and perfumed air, felt like a world apart, but the chaos outside seeped in as a reminder: she was not alone. The mansion thrummed with life—the baron, his six other daughters, an army of servants, guards, and even a few distant relatives who seemed to orbit the family like vultures awaiting an inheritance.

  Emilia sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. Her body still ached from the blows she had dealt to the training dummy the previous afternoon. Her arms, unaccustomed to the effort, protested with every movement, and her knuckles were red and raw. But the pain was familiar, almost comforting. It reminded her of nights scrubbing floors at the orphanage, when her hands bled and her knees trembled, yet she pressed on because there was no other choice. Here, in this world, survival also depended on her will.

  She dressed carefully, choosing a simple blue linen dress from Celeste’s wardrobe. The silk and lace gowns were beautiful but absurdly impractical for what she had in mind. As she tied her hair into a tight braid, she thought about the mansion and its inhabitants. Celeste’s memories were fragmented but sufficient to give her a sense of the family dynamics. The baron, Lord Dietrich Varnholt, was a stern man, obsessed with his lineage’s prestige. His wife, Lady Isolde, was a distant figure, more interested in banquets than in her daughters. Celeste’s six sisters were a mix of allies and rivals, each vying for their father’s attention or a profitable marriage. Celeste, according to her memories, was the fourth daughter, known for her sharp tongue and fiery temper. Nobody seemed to care for her much—not even the servants, who avoided her as if she were a viper.

  “No wonder,” Emilia muttered, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. That face, with its cold beauty and haughty eyes, was a mask she would have to wear carefully. She couldn’t afford mistakes. If anyone suspected she wasn’t the real Celeste, the consequences could be catastrophic. For now, she would play the baron’s daughter, a spoiled noble, while plotting how to grow strong in this brutal world.

  A knock at the door snapped her out of her thoughts. “Celeste, open the door already!” The voice was sharp, impatient, with a hint of disdain that Emilia recognized instantly. It was Lysa, the third sister, a year older than Celeste and with an even more venomous tongue.

  Emilia took a deep breath, adopting the haughty posture she’d seen in Celeste’s memories. She opened the door to find Lysa, a girl with dark hair and piercing eyes, dressed in a green gown that screamed wealth. A servant trailed behind her, carrying a pile of fabrics.

  “By the gods, what’s wrong with you?” Lysa said, eyeing her up and down. “Why are you dressed like a peasant? Mother expects us to look presentable for lunch with Lord Falke’s envoys. You can’t show up looking like you just cleaned the stables.”

  Emilia bit back a retort. She wanted to tell Lysa to shove her fabrics where they’d fit, but that was something the old Celeste would have done. She needed to be smarter. “I’m not feeling well today,” she said, forcing a frail voice. “I thought something simple would be better.”

  Lysa narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious. “You, sick? The only thing sick here is your sense of decorum. Come on, change. I’m not letting you make me look bad in front of the Falkes.” She gestured to the servant, who dumped the fabrics on the bed and scurried out.

  Emilia pressed her lips together but nodded. “Fine. Give me a moment.” She closed the door behind Lysa, leaning against it with a sigh. This was going to be a problem. Not only did she have to deal with monsters and dungeons, but also with a family that seemed ready to tear itself apart. But she had no time for complaints. Gavril was waiting for her in the courtyard at noon, and she wasn’t about to waste a chance to train.

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  The sun was at its peak when Emilia reached the back courtyard. She had swapped the linen dress for leather trousers and a tunic she found in a forgotten chest, likely used by Celeste for some fencing lesson she never took seriously. The courtyard was busier than the day before: a group of guards practiced with spears in one corner, while a pair of servants hauled sacks of grain toward the kitchens. Gavril stood by the training dummy, sharpening a dagger with a whetstone. When he saw her, he raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, princess, you almost look like a normal person,” he said with that half-smile that seemed to mock everything. “Though I still don’t get what’s got you playing warrior all of a sudden.”

  “It’s not a game,” Emilia replied, keeping her voice steady. “I want to learn. You said you’d teach me, so here I am.”

  Gavril set the dagger aside and stood, crossing his arms. “Fine, but I warned you: no crying. And if you think you’re going to become an aura master in two days, you’re crazier than I thought.”

  “I don’t expect miracles,” Emilia said. “I just want to start.”

  Gavril studied her for a moment, as if searching for a trap. Finally, he nodded. “Alright. First, the basics. Your stance is a mess, and your punches are weaker than a ten-year-old’s. We’re going to work on that.” He pointed to the dummy. “Get in position. Feet apart, knees bent, fists in front of your chest. Like yesterday, but this time, don’t look like a rag doll.”

  Emilia obeyed, feeling the weight of the nearby guards’ gazes. She knew they were watching, probably laughing at “Lady Celeste” trying to play soldier. But she didn’t care. She’d faced worse than a few snickers. She adjusted her stance, following Gavril’s instructions, and struck the dummy. The impact was slightly stronger than the day before, but still pitiful.

  “By the gods, is that all you’ve got?” Gavril growled. “Hit it like you want to break it, not pet it. Use your weight, not just your arms.”

  Emilia clenched her teeth and struck again, this time putting more force into the motion. The dummy swayed, and a faint creak echoed from the wood. The pain in her knuckles was immediate, but there was also a spark of satisfaction. It was a start.

  “Better,” Gavril said, though his tone remained dry. “Now do it a hundred more times. And don’t stop until I tell you.”

  Emilia stared at him, hoping it was a joke. But Gavril’s expression was serious, his eyes hard as steel. She nodded and turned back to the dummy, striking again and again. Each blow sent a jolt of pain through her arms, but she also felt something else: a warm, barely perceptible energy beginning to flow from her chest. Was it aura? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t going to stop to ask.

  Hours later, Emilia was drenched in sweat, her arms trembling and her knuckles raw. Gavril finally told her to stop, and she collapsed onto the ground, gasping. The courtyard was quieter now, with the guards and servants busy elsewhere. Only Gavril remained, watching her with a mix of curiosity and what might have been respect.

  “Not bad for a first day,” he said, sitting beside her. “Though I still don’t get why a rich girl like you wants to get her hands dirty. What happened, Lady Celeste? Got bored of throwing goblets at the servants?”

  Emilia tensed but kept her composure. “Maybe I realized the world isn’t as kind as I thought,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I want to be ready for whatever comes.”

  Gavril let out a short laugh. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard you say in years.” He stood, offering her a hand. “Rest up, princess. Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”

  Emilia took his hand, pulling herself up with effort. As Gavril walked away, she looked at the training dummy, now marked with the dents of her blows. It wasn’t much, but it was a step. In her mind, a plan began to form. Martial arts were just the beginning. She had read in the library about slimes—weak but versatile creatures that could be tamed. If she could control one, she might have a tool to survive in this world of monsters and dungeons.

  But first, she had to survive the mansion. Lunch with Lord Falke’s envoys was about to begin, and Lysa wasn’t going to leave her alone. Emilia sighed, straightening up. I’m not Celeste, she thought, but she kept her mouth shut. For now, she would be the baron’s daughter, a mask she would wear until she was ready to cast it off. And when that moment came, the world would know what she was capable of.