She figured she'd just start the day the same way she always did. Ring the bell, then immediately regret being awake so early. The servants showed up right on cue, moving around her like it was all perfectly rehearsed. Before she could even fully wake up, she was dressed, her hair fixed, and gently pushed into facing the day whether she was ready or not.
Her first stop, as always, was Lowen.
That part of her routine never felt tiring. Seeing him smile the moment she greeted him made everything else feel lighter.
Denova reach out slowly, almost as if she were afraid of startling him, and gently touched Lowen's face. Her fingers were warm, careful, tracing the faint bruises that had already begun to fade. Her expression softened, eyes filled with quiet concern as she searched his face.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly. "Are you feeling fine now? And the bruises? do they still hurt?"
She paused only for a breath before continuing, her voice gentle but earnest. "Have you been getting along with the servants? Do you like them? Are they treating you well?"
Lowen looked at her, really looked at her, and a small smile slowly spread across his face. In that moment, he understood something simple yet profound. This woman, the first person who had reached out to him, the first to save him, wasn't asking out of obligation or pity.
She genuinely cared.
She wanted to know.
She wanted him to be okay.
And for the first time in his life, someone treated him as if he truly mattered.
Denova wasn't just his rescuer. To Lowen, she was everything, his savior, his hero, the person who had shown him kindness when the world had given him none. Because of her, he wanted to be better. Because of her, he felt like he deserved to be better.
"I'm fine," he said, his voice soft but steady, a hint of excitement creeping in. "They're treating me really well. They give me lots of delicious foods. Foods I've never had before."
As he spoke, he reached up and gently held the hand that rested against his cheek, as if he didn't want the moment to end. He smiled again, brighter this time, eyes shining.
"They're very kind to me," he added, then let out a small chuckle. "I'm happier than I've ever been. And it's because you came."
Denova felt something warm bloom in her chest. She smiled widely, her eyes softening as she squeezed his hand in return. Seeing him like this, safe, smiling, healing filled her with a deep, quiet satisfaction. Not everyone who needed help received it, and not everyone who received help managed to heal. But Lowen was getting better, and that alone made everything worth it.
After a moment, she gently excused herself, reminding him to eat well and rest properly. Lowen nodded eagerly, still smiling as he watched her go.
Denova step into the next room where the doctor and attendants were waiting, her heart still light. She asked about Lowen's condition, listening carefully as they spoke.
The news was good.
His recovery was steady.
No complications.
She nodded, relief washing over her. After thanking them, she left the room quietly, carrying a silent promise in her heart, that she would keep doing everything she could for him.
That she would stay.
That she wouldn't let him face the world alone ever again.
Breakfast came next, though one seat was noticeably empty.
Elarion wasn't there.
Urgent business, apparently.
She wasn't surprised.
Duke Elarion Ashenveil was one of the richest men in the empire, second only to the imperial family. People admired him, followed him, talked about him endlessly. Even the imperial family had no choice but to stay on his good side, going against him would mean upsetting the public, and no ruler liked that kind of trouble.
She stirred her tea, a little distracted, thinking about how other people see her, they probably think how strange it is that someone so powerful could be so considerate toward her.
That was when the thought settled in.
She understood this world now, truly understood it. Not just the language or the customs, but the way power moved quietly behind closed doors, the way favors were traded with smiles, the way silence could be louder than protest. She knew how people thought, how they acted when watched, and how different they became when they believed no one was paying attention. Somewhere along the way, she had adapted. Faster than she ever imagined she could.
And instead of letting her uneasiness fester, instead of drowning in questions and fear, she made a decision.
Enough waiting.
"If I want answers," she murmured to herself while adjusting her cloak, "then I actually have to go looking for them."
She needed answers, real ones. Somewhere in the imperial library, there had to be records.
Old texts.
Forbidden contracts.
Stories buried under dust and deliberate ignorance.
Records of demons.
Of rituals.
Of deals especially the kind powerful enough to tear a soul from another world and bind it into a new body.
And more importantly… the price of such a deal.
Her fingers curled slightly at the thought. Nothing that powerful ever comes without a cost.
Which meant she needed access.
And not just any access.
She stopped mid-step, sighing softly. "Which means… I need leverage."
The answer came easily, even if she didn't particularly like it.
"The prince," she said aloud, as if saying it plainly might make it less complicated. "Of course it's the prince."
Getting close to him meant navigating court politics, smiling through conversations layered with meaning, choosing every word carefully. It meant attention, too much of it. She already gain a lot of attention due to her dress, also for for being close to Duke Elarion, but still it's not enough. Then she remembered the invitation. The tour around the empire. Casual, friendly… strategic.
"The letter should arrive any day now," she muttered. "And when it does, that's my opening."
She exhaled slowly, nodding to herself. "Good. That works in my favor."
For now, though, she had other responsibilities, ones that mattered just as much, if not more.
Before preparing to leave for Ravenscroft Manor. There was a project she had been carrying in her heart for some time now, one she could no longer postpone. It had grown heavier with every passing day, demanding to be acted upon rather than merely planned.
Something for the people.
As she walked through the wide corridors, the manor still hushed in the early hours, her footsteps echoed softly against stone. The weight of unanswered questions still existed, demons, contracts, the unseen price of impossible miracles, but for once, they stayed at the edges of her mind. She couldn't solve everything at once.
Her thoughts drifted outward, beyond walls and politics, toward the land itself. Toward the rolling fields of Ravenscroft. Toward farms that had fed generations, now worn thin by repetition and tradition that refused to evolve.
The soil, she knew, was tired.
It had been pushed and demanded from, season after season, without rest, without understanding. Farmers worked as their fathers had, and their fathers before them, not out of ignorance, but because no one had ever shown them another way.
"Crop rotation," she whispered, almost reverently, as if speaking to the land itself. "Grains followed by legumes… peas, beans… let them give back what the soil has lost. Let it heal."
Her pace slowed as ideas stacked one upon another. Composting, done properly, turning waste into nourishment instead of burning it away. Using ash sparingly, returning minerals to the earth instead of poisoning it. Raised beds in low-lying fields where floods ruined harvests year after year.
She let out a small, breathless laugh.
"They're really going to think I've lost my mind."
Then, softer, more certain: "And that's fine."
She lifted her chin slightly. "They can call it Lady Ravenscroft's strange ideas as much as they like, as long as the crops grow."
Her thoughts raced ahead, vivid and alive. Simple irrigation channels carved carefully so water flowed where it was needed instead of destroying fields. Rainwater collected in barrels and stone cisterns for dry months. Windbreaks planted along open land to protect fragile crops. Tools adjusted not replaced to ease strain on tired hands and backs.
Nothing extravagant.
Nothing magical.
Just practical.
Humane.
Things that had once been ordinary in her old world… and revolutionary here.
And then there was food.
Not banquets for nobles or fragile pastries meant only to impress guests, but meals meant to sustain life.
Meals that comforted, nourished, and endured.
"Stews," she murmured. "Slow cooked, bones for broth, root vegetables, cheap, filling."
She imagined communal kitchens teaching families how to stretch supplies without sacrificing nutrition. Fermented vegetables that lasted through winter and strengthened the body.
Thick porridges made from mixed grains.
Flatbreads using beans or tubers when wheat failed.
Recipes that didn't rely on abundance, only care.
"Food that actually fills people," she said quietly, her throat tightening. "Food that keeps them alive… and gives them strength."
She could already picture it, children with color in their cheeks, farmers standing straighter, winter becoming something endured rather than feared.
This land deserved more than survival.
These people deserved more than scraping by.
Fear still existed, of course it did, but it no longer ruled her. She had been given knowledge, opportunity, and a place to stand.
"This time," she whispered, steady and sure. "I'll help you, Denova. Wherever you are right now… I'll take care of your people. I promise, I know that's what you wanted too."
Being in Denova's body truly is a second chance, she would honor it not with hesitation, not with regret, but with action.
Even if it meant stepping straight into trouble.
Denova was already halfway down the corridor from the dining hall, her mind occupied with practical thoughts packing things she needed, arranging the carriage, preparing herself for the return to Ravenscroft Manor. The castle was unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that made footsteps echo a little too loudly. She was just about to turn the corner when she heard voices.
She slowed.
Then stopped.
The sound was unmistakable low, tense, familiar. Carefully, she turned her head toward a nearby room where the door was slightly ajar, just enough to let voices slip through the narrow opening. And there, framed by the crack in the door, stood Yoter and Patricia.
Denova froze.
"Oh," she mouthed silently.
This feels illegal.
She had every intention of walking away.
Truly.