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Mallory learned very quickly that terrifying the household staff into doing their jobs did not magically fix every problem in the estate, but it did make breakfast arrive hot.
That, in her opinion, was progress.
The morning after the dining hall incident, she woke to three careful knocks on her bedroom door instead of the usual lazy tap that sounded more like someone politely warning a dusty cupboard that food had arrived. The difference was immediate. Whoever stood outside did not barge in. They waited. They waited so intensely that Mallory could almost feel the anxiety leaking through the wood like steam from a pot.
She lay beneath her ridiculously soft blanket for a moment, blinking at the canopy above her bed while her brain dragged itself into consciousness. For half a second, she forgot where she was. That happened often in those early days. Sleep was cruel like that. It let her drift into darkness without questions, then returned her to lavender hair, noble ceilings, cold memories and a life that technically belonged to a dead girl.
Then reality landed on her chest, she was still Mallory Chainmoor, she was still in another world.
She was still apparently a side character whose original function in the story had been to die and give more important people something dramatic to react to.
The knocking came again, softer this time, Mallory inhaled through her nose and sat up. “Come in.”
The door opened with the caution of someone entering a room that might contain a sleeping bear. Two maids stepped inside carrying trays. They were both pale. Their eyes did not lift higher than the carpet. Their steps were controlled, quiet, careful, as if the floor itself might report them for disobedience.
Mallory watched them approach.
The tray was placed on the small table near the window. Not shoved down. Not dropped. Placed. Properly. One maid lifted the silver cover with both hands, and steam curled into the morning air.
Steam, beautiful, glorious steam and honestly Mallory almost clapped.
The meal was simple, but clearly fresh. Warm bread with a browned crust, a bowl of thick porridge sweetened with something that smelled faintly floral, sliced fruit arranged in a neat fan, soft cheese, and tea in a porcelain cup. It was not a grand feast, but compared to the prison-water soup and weaponised bread she had been served before, it looked like a royal banquet.
She stared at the food then at the maids. The two women looked ready to confess to crimes they had not even committed.
Mallory smiled “See? Was that so difficult?” Both maids flinched. “No, my lady,” they said together. “Good. Then remember this feeling. This warm, beautiful feeling of performing the work you are paid to do.”
One maid’s fingers tightened around the edge of the tray. The other looked like she had briefly stopped breathing.
Mallory reached for the tea first. She smelled it cautiously, because apparently she now lived in a world where food quality was a gamble and the staff had the survival instincts of wet paper. Nothing felt wrong. No pressure in her chest. No prickling beneath her skin. No strange inner alarm scratching behind her ribs. It smelled safe enough. She took a sip.
It was actually good not modern supermarket teabag good. Better. Richer. Fragrant. Slightly sweet, with a warm aftertaste that reminded her of honey and herbs.
She hated that she had to admit this world had decent tea “Much better,” she said, the maids sagged slightly with relief. “Have my father and Lady Lillian returned?” That question almost broke them.
The taller maid swallowed. “No, my lady. Lord Chainmoor remains away on business. Lady Lillian is also away from the estate.”
Mallory lowered the cup slowly “Away where?” The maids exchanged the tiniest glance, Mallory saw it. Her wish, or whatever strange little gift had settled into her bones, stirred faintly. Not danger. Not exactly. More like a finger tapping against glass. Something was being avoided, she tilted her head, “I asked a question.”
The shorter maid immediately lowered her head. “Lord Chainmoor travelled to the western holdings, my lady. Lady Lillian accompanied him for part of the journey before visiting her relatives near the southern border.”
“How long have they been gone?”
“Nearly a month, my lady.” Nearly a month, Mallory stared into her tea.
A whole month, and the household had been running itself like a badly supervised circus. The servants had clearly decided that the quiet forgotten daughter did not matter enough to feed properly. The butler, whoever he was, had either not noticed or had decided not noticing was more comfortable. Her siblings were either absent, uninterested, or living in separate corners of the estate like emotionally distant furniture.
Wonderful, absolutely wonderful, “Where is the butler?”
“Master Bell is attending to estate correspondence.”
“Tell him I want to speak with him after breakfast.” The taller maid paled. Mallory raised an eyebrow. “Is that difficult?”
“No, my lady. I will inform him immediately.”
“Good.” The maids withdrew with the stiff, frightened grace of people escaping execution.
Mallory ate breakfast slowly after they left. She refused to rush. The food was warm, the tea was good, and for the first time since arriving in this absurd world, she did not feel like she was being fed by people who thought she was a haunted doll in storage. Still, comfort did not erase reality, she needed information.
She had been in this body for several days now, long enough to know that the staff were frightened of her, the family was absent, and the estate looked expensive but emotionally abandoned. That was not enough. If she wanted to survive, she needed to understand where she was. Not just the house. The world. The country. The economy. The rules. She could not keep stumbling around like a newborn deer in a silk nightgown.
The tragic novel she remembered was useless in all the wrong places. She remembered fragments of dramatic scenes. A heroine crying in a moonlit garden. A villainess smiling over a teacup while planning something beautifully stupid. A male lead with the emotional warmth of an iron gate. A second male lead who probably deserved better, because second male leads usually existed to suffer attractively near windows. There had been balls, scandals, poisonings, rumours, engagements, accusations, and at least one public trial that had made her want to throw the book across a room.
But practical information? Barely anything. The author had apparently believed readers needed eight pages describing the heroine’s tears but not one paragraph explaining the toilet situation.
Ridiculous, after breakfast, Wrat Stonebell arrived. At least, Mallory assumed he was Wrat Stonebell, because the man looked exactly like someone named Wrat Stonebell should look. Tall, stiff-backed, silver-haired, and dry-faced, with the calm expression of a man who had witnessed generations of nonsense and filed them alphabetically. His uniform was immaculate. His posture was perfect. His eyes were sharp, but not cruel.
That annoyed her a little, she had been prepared to hate him immediately. It was harder when he looked competent. He bowed. “My lady. You wished to see me.”
Mallory sat in the chair near the window, one leg tucked beneath her before she remembered she was supposed to be a noble lady and placed both feet properly on the floor. Bell’s eyes flicked down for half a second. He noticed. Of course he noticed. But he said nothing, “I did.”
“How may I assist you?” She studied him carefully. “Did you know the servants were feeding me spoiled food?” A muscle in his jaw tightened. So he had not known, interesting, “I was told your appetite had been poor, my lady.”
“And you believed that?”
“The reports were consistent.”
“Consistently false.” His expression did not shift much, but something behind his eyes hardened, “I see.”
“Do you?” A pause, then he bowed deeper, “I have failed in my duty.” That caught her off guard.
Mallory had expected excuses. A noble household seemed like exactly the sort of place where people passed blame down the chain until it landed on the lowest servant unfortunate enough to be standing still. Instead, Wrat accepted responsibility with such clean precision that she found herself momentarily speechless.
Only momentarily “That was easy,” she muttered, “My lady?”
“Nothing.” Wrat straightened, “I will conduct an investigation into the household staff.”
“No.” His brows lifted faintly, Mallory leaned back. “You will conduct it after I learn how this estate functions. I want ledgers, staff lists, household accounts, meal records, salary records, supply records, anything that tells me who gets paid and what they are supposed to be doing.”
Bell looked at her in silence, it was a polite silence, but definitely a silence. “What?” she asked. “Forgive me, my lady. You have not previously shown interest in household management.” Mallory smiled thinly, “Yes, well, nearly being fed into the afterlife twice has awakened new passions.” Wrat blinked just once.
The tiniest crack in his butler armour, “Very well,” he said. “I will have the documents prepared.”
“And books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Basic history. Geography. Law. Noble etiquette. Currency. Trade. Anything a person living in this country should already know.”
Another pause, this one was longer, Mallory could practically hear him thinking. “My lady,” he said carefully, “are you feeling unwell?”
“Yes.”
“Should I summon a physician?”
“No. My condition is called ignorance, and unfortunately, I believe the treatment is reading.” Wrat stared and Mallory stared back, finally, he bowed again. “As you wish.” That was how Mallory’s nightmare began.
Not assassins, not poison, not even a secret engagement scandal. But books, piles and piles of books. Within two hours, Wrat had transformed one of the smaller sitting rooms into what Mallory could only describe as an academic ambush. A large table had been cleared and covered with volumes. Thick leather-bound histories, maps rolled in tubes, slim etiquette manuals, household ledgers, account books, family records, law summaries, agricultural reports, and several terrifying documents filled with numbers.
Mallory stood at the doorway and stared, “No,” she said. Wrat stood beside the table with his hands folded, “You requested materials, my lady.”
“I requested materials, not a physical manifestation of suffering.”
“You were thorough in your request.”
“That was before I saw the consequences.” Bell’s mouth twitched. It was so faint she almost missed it, almost.
Mallory narrowed her eyes, “Did you just nearly smile?”
“No, my lady.”
“You did.”
“I would never.”
“Liar.”
He bowed slightly. “Shall I arrange tea?”
“Yes. Strong tea. Tea that makes me understand economics.”
“I will do my best.”
For the next week, Mallory read then she read more. Then she read until her eyes felt like they had been sanded, polished, and reinserted upside down.
The world, she discovered, was called Elarion, or at least that was the name used in the maps she found. Some books called it the Known World, which immediately annoyed her because calling something the Known World was exactly how people ended up dramatically discovering an unknown continent in volume four.
Elarion was made of several major realms and territories, each with names that looked elegant on paper and felt like punishment when spoken aloud. Frosthelm lay to the north, all snow, mountains, frozen seas, and people who probably considered warmth a moral weakness. Velmoris sat across the western waters, old, rich, and annoyingly smug according to one author who clearly had political opinions. Orynthia glittered in the east, a gilded empire of trade cities, desert roads, and sunlit palaces. Vasterra sprawled below it, dry and harsh, with sun-scorched wastelands and fortified settlements. Other names scattered across the map like crumbs from an overenthusiastic baker: Caeldria, Xilvanor, Drakonia, the Sapphire Sea, the Shivering Sea, the Dying Sea, the Endless Ocean.
Mallory traced the names with one finger and sighed, “Fantasy authors need to be stopped.” The particular country she lived in was Swerastherla or possibly Swerastheria or Swerastherla depending on which old map, new map, noble text, trade treaty, or dusty historian was feeling dramatic that day.
Mallory spent ten full minutes trying to pronounce it properly and eventually gave up, “Swe-ra-sther-la,” she muttered, glaring at the page. “Sweras… Swerath… Sewer-theatre. No. Absolutely not.”
Wrat, who had been quietly arranging documents nearby, paused, “My lady?”
“Nothing. Your country has too many letters.”
“It is your country as well, my lady.”
“Unfortunately.”
She learned that the Chainmoor estate stood near one of the central routes leading toward the capital, which explained the family’s wealth. Their lands were not the largest, but they were well-positioned. Roads, grain storage, textile farms, river access, and several leased merchant facilities. Money moved through Chainmoor land even when the family itself remained socially quiet.
Death, she decided very quickly, was deeply underwhelming.
There was no tunnel of light. No dead relatives waiting with open arms. No emotional orchestra swelling in the background as she peacefully ascended into the afterlife after a meaningful final thought.
No.
One moment she had been dragging herself home after a fourteen-hour shift with the grace of a dying Victorian orphan, and the next moment something absolutely ridiculous happened.
To this day, she would firmly argue that it was not her fault. The object in question had not even looked dangerous.
In fact, she distinctly remembered staring at it in confusion before everything went black. That was the insulting part.
Not only had she died, but she had died stupidly.
No ancient prophecy.
No dramatic sacrifice.
No cool final speech.
Just exhaustion, bad luck, and what she could only describe as cosmic nonsense. Then came the nothingness, except it was not really nothingness.
That was what made it so deeply unsettling.
The space around her seemed bright, yet there was no visible source of light. It was colourless while somehow containing every colour imaginable at once. It felt cold and warm simultaneously, heavy and weightless, silent yet buzzing faintly beneath the surface like distant static buried underneath water.
She could not tell if she was standing or if she even had a body and at first, panic clawed at her throat then confusion settled in, and then irritation.
Because what exactly was she supposed to do here? She floated or maybe she drifted or maybe she was simply existing inside whatever this strange place was supposed to be.
Time did not feel real, it could have been five minutes. It could have been five centuries, and eventually she folded invisible arms across her invisible chest.
“Well,” she muttered into the void, “this is weird.”
Her voice echoed strangely. Not outward maybe inward, like the sound had nowhere to travel except directly back into her own mind. Nothing answered and she sighed dramatically, “If this is the afterlife,” she said, “I want a refund.”
Sneak peek 🤭 (sorry about the AI generated photos, can’t draw lol)
🌝 Mallory Chainmoor
Nickname: Mal, Lory
Age: 19
Role: Main female lead, original side character
Family: Daughter of Tymon Chainmoor and the late Eveline Chainmoor. Stepdaughter of Lillian Chainmoor. Younger sister of Calhoun and Angel. Older half-sister of Kareem.
Fiancé: Currently unnamed
Relationship Status: Engaged through family arrangement, but Mallory herself does not care for romance right now, she cares about money more.
Personality: Mallory is blunt, sharp-tongued, dramatic in her own head, and allergic to nonsense. She is not naturally elegant in the perfect noble lady way, but she is intelligent, observant, and stubborn enough to survive situations that would usually crush quieter people. She hates misunderstandings and prefers dragging problems into the light immediately rather than letting them rot for twelve chapters. She can be harsh when wronged, especially toward people who abuse power, but she is not heartless. Under her sarcasm, she is unsettled by the original Mallory’s loneliness and slowly becomes protective of the life she inherited.
H
🦊 Yang Foxworth
Nickname: Yan
Age: 22
Role: Original second male lead, current male lead
Family: House Foxworth. Parents can be decided later, but his family should be old, politically sharp, and slightly mysterious.
Relationship Status: Unmarried
Personality: Yang is charming in a dangerous way. He is sly, observant, graceful, and very good at pretending he is less serious than he actually is. He likes watching people reveal themselves through small mistakes. He is not loud or openly aggressive; his danger comes from patience, intelligence, and the fact that he notices too much. Around Mallory, he becomes amused because she is impossible to predict, but he also slowly becomes protective without making it obvious. He is the kind of man who smiles while already knowing three secrets.
G
🎀 Arin Balliol
Nickname: Rin
Age: 18
Role: Original female lead
Family: House Balliol. Family details can stay vague until needed.
Relationship Status: Originally tied to Alarik’s romance route in the novel
Personality: Arin looks like the perfect delicate heroine at first glance, but she is more human than Mallory expected. She is polite, observant, nervous in social situations, and far less helpless than the original story made her seem. She has moments of awkwardness, quiet courage, and emotional intelligence. Mallory expected a Mary Sue heroine, but Arin turns out to be a real girl trying to survive noble society with dignity. Her kindness can be mistaken for weakness, but she is not stupid.
❄️Alarik Lionfeld
Nickname: Al
Age: 21
Role: Original male lead
Family: House Lionfeld. Likely a powerful noble or military-connected family.
Relationship Status: Original intended love interest of Arin
Personality: Alarik is cold, controlled, handsome, and intense. He gives off the feeling of someone raised to be useful before being happy. He is masculine without being bulky, elegant without being soft, and emotionally locked up like a bank vault with abandonment issues. In the original novel, Mallory remembers him as the typical cold male lead, but in reality he is more complicated. He notices more than he says and does not enjoy being emotionally manipulated by society.
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