The healer's footsteps faded down the corridor, and the room fell into an uneasy silence.
I lay there staring at the canopy above the bed, its embroidered constellations glittering faintly in the golden light. Trials. Curse. A journey I couldn't remember. None of it felt real—yet my body reacted as if it knew the danger long before my mind could catch up.
My chest felt tight.
Okay. Breathe, I told myself. Panicking won't help.
I pushed myself upright, ignoring the lingering dizziness. My hands trembled slightly as they emerged from the crimson sheets—hands that weren't mine. Slender fingers, pale skin, a thin silver ring etched with unfamiliar runes resting on my right index finger.
Astrid's hands.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold marble, sending a sharp shock through me that grounded my thoughts. Good. I needed that.
Across the room stood a tall mirror framed in gold.
I hesitated only a moment before standing and walking toward it, each step cautious, as if this body might reject me at any second. When I finally looked—
I froze.
The woman staring back at me was beautiful in a restrained, almost fragile way. Long ash-blonde hair spilled down her back, slightly tangled from sleep. Her eyes were a muted violet, shadowed by exhaustion, but sharp—too sharp for someone described as fragile.
She didn't look like a protagonist.
She looked like someone important enough to be noticed… but not important enough to be remembered.
A side character.
The realization settled uncomfortably in my chest, not as a thought but as a certainty.
"I've read this story," I whispered.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Bits and pieces began to surface—vague, fragmented, like pages burned at the edges. A fantasy world. A central heroine blessed by the spirits. A male lead destined to change the fate of the empire.
And Astrid?
Astrid was supposed to die.
My reflection stared back at me, eyes widening as the memory finally sharpened.
Lady Astrid of House Valenwood. A noblewoman cursed at birth. Weak constitution. Politically useful. Engaged briefly to the crown prince before being quietly discarded once the real heroine appeared.
She wasn't evil. She wasn't heroic.
She was convenient.
A chill ran down my spine.
"So that's it," I murmured. "I'm her."
The one whose illness justified the prince's broken engagement.
The one whose death triggered a brief moment of regret—before the story moved on without her.
No wonder everyone kept saying I'd been "through much."
I pressed a hand to my chest. Beneath my palm, my heart beat fast and uneven, as if it agreed with my fear.
If the story continued as I remembered it—even loosely—I didn't have much time.
A sudden knock at the door made me flinch.
"My lady?" Eldrin's voice again, cautious now. "The healer requests permission to return."
I straightened instinctively, shoulders back, chin lifting. The motion felt strangely natural, like muscle memory asserting itself.
"Yes," I said after a pause. "But… Eldrin?"
"Yes, my lady?"
"When did I fall ill?"
There was a brief silence on the other side of the door.
"…The night the imperial decree arrived."
My heart sank.
Of course it did.
"Send her in," I said quietly.
As the door opened and the healer stepped back inside, one thought burned through the haze of fear and confusion:
If I was stuck playing a side character in someone else's story—
Then I would rewrite everything.
Even if the world itself tried to stop me.