Chapter 1: The Physics of Pathological FrailtyI have decided that the God of this world is not a divine being, but a bored teenager with a magnifying glass and a very specific interest in making me look ridiculous.
My name is Liliana. In my world, I was an eighteen-year-old university student who lived on iced coffee and the high-stakes drama of historical romance novels. I've read 4,562 of them. I knew the "Mysterious Girl" starter pack. I was supposed to arrive with an aura of elegance and a tragic backstory that made me look like a glowing angel.
Instead, I arrived with the structural integrity of a wet paper towel.
After my spectacular tactical face-plant in the ballroom, I was transported to the "Azure Wing" via a human litter composed of four very confused, very stressed Knights.
"Careful, brothers," Sir Alistair muttered, holding the corner of my litter like it was a crate of nitroglycerin. "She... she just fell. On flat ground. Is this a magical attack? An invisible assassin?"
"I told you," I wheezed, trying to untangle my limbs from a surplus of petticoats. "I just have the grace of a newborn giraffe. Just put me down, I'm eighteen. I can walk."
The Knights stopped dead. They looked at each other, then back at me, their expressions blank.
"Walk?" one asked, scratching his helmet. "But... you are horizontal, My Lady. In the sacred texts of the Maidens, people who are horizontal stay that way until a Duke catches them or a tragedy occurs."
The PerformanceA young maid standing by the gilded doors watched the spectacle with a practiced, weary sigh. She stepped forward, clasping her hands over her heart and tilting her head at an angle that looked physically painful.
"Oh, Sir Alistair," she swooned, her voice a pitch-perfect mockery of every 'Holy Saintess' I'd ever read about. "Can you not see? The air is too heavy today. The little lily, Lady Liliana, isn't strong enough to carry it!"
Alistair blinked, his eyes widening in genuine alarm. "The air... is heavy?" He took a cautious, deep breath. "By the Gods, I think she's right. It does feel a bit thick today! How has she not suffocated?"
"It's literally just humidity!" I shouted. "I am eighteen! I want to grow up and be a true lady!"
Prince Cassian—the one with the glowing cape—stepped forward, his eyes flashing with a terrifying, protective fire.
"Grow up?" he hissed. "Who? Who dared to call you childish, Liliana? Give me a name. I shall have their entire bloodline scrubbed from the records for suggesting our Ethereal Feather needs to 'grow' anything."
The Perfect VillainessThe doors swung open, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. I looked up, and my breath hitched.
I knew her role immediately. Those sharp, cat-like eyes that looked like they could cut glass. The way she moved with the predatory grace of a panther in silk. And the dress—a deep, lethal burgundy that stood out like a bloodstain against the pastel-colored room.
She was the perfect, textbook description of a Villainess. She looked cool. She looked so cool. While I was lying here being treated like a sentient marshmallow, she was standing there looking like she owned the concept of sunlight and was charging people rent to use it.
I didn't want to be the "Little Lily." I wanted to be her.
She looked at me—currently face-down on the rug—and then at the panicked men.
"The 'Fragile Feather' is awake," She said, her voice like silk dragged over gravel. "And I see she's already attempted to fight the floor. Who won? My money is on the rug."
"Vesperia, enough!" Cassian barked. "The Saintess says the air is too heavy for her!"
She paused, looking at the saintess, then at me. She leaned down, and for a second, our eyes met. I expected a scathing insult, but instead, I saw a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like pity.
"She didn't 'defy the stars,'" She dryly remarked to the room. "She tripped on a flat rug. And her 'heavenly truth' is just a lack of basic motor skills. If you want her to 'grow up,' Cassian, stop carrying her like a handbag."
I felt a surge of respect. She was the only person talking sense! I tried to sit up to agree with her, to show her I was on her side—the side of logic and cool burgundy dresses.
"I agree!" I announced, trying to swing my legs off the bed with dignity. "I am a student of the modern world! I am—"
My big toe hit the edge of the rug. In a world governed by logic, I would have stumbled. In this world, my body performed a majestic, slow-motion slide that ended with me pinned against Sir Alistair's polished boot. Again.
"Aha!" Alistair cried, weeping with pride. "She is trying to shine my armor with her hair! Such humility! Such grace!"
The villainess closed her eyes and took a very long sip of wine. "She's a lost cause," she muttered, though I caught her watching me with a curious glint in her eyes.
I muffled a groan into the Knight's boot. I was eighteen years old, a romcom addict, and I was currently being held hostage by my own "fragility."
"I'm going to kill the author of this world," I whispered into the leather.