What happened outside the First Princess's doors did not end when the body collapsed.
The courtyard still carried it—whispers clinging to stone, servants lowering their voices as they passed, eyes flicking toward the place where someone fragile had refused to yield. Even the upper halls had felt the disturbance, subtle but unmistakable, as if a single act of defiance had pressed against the palace itself.
Now she lay in a quiet room, breath shallow, strength spent. But what she had done had already moved beyond her reach.
The palace had begun to respond.
And so the story followed—not inward, into her thoughts, but outward—tracking the pressure her survival had placed upon a world that had never intended to notice her at all.
She woke to a voice she should not have heard—and to a life she could no longer claim.
Sunlight cut through the room in thin, accusing lines. Curtains stirred in a faint morning breeze, brushing softly against the floor. Shadows stretched and shifted along the walls, slow and watchful.
The bed creaked as Rynvaris stirred, her fragile body still weighed down by exhaustion. Consciousness surfaced reluctantly, pulling her through the remnants of a dream she could not escape.
"Ray… Rayvin…"
The voice was distant, blurred at the edges, yet it tightened around her chest.
His sister's voice.
"Wake up, Ray…"
Warmth and pain tangled together. Memories rose without permission—fragments of a past that no longer belonged to this body. A brother long gone. A sister once loved with fierce devotion. The voice lingered, coaxing, calling to the boy he had been.
"Ray… Rayvaris."
Her eyes flew open.
Light burned across her vision, pale and merciless. She pushed herself up on trembling elbows, the bed groaning beneath the movement. Her heart raced, breath uneven, body slow to follow her will.
This was not a dream.
And the voice was gone.
Movement near the doorway.
A shadow stretched across the floor. Footsteps—soft, deliberate—echoed faintly against the walls.
Sylvaris.
Her presence settled into the room like gravity. Cold. Sharp. Absolute. Even the air seemed to obey her.
"I know you're awake."
Rynvaris froze. Every nerve screamed. Her body was fragile, hollowed out by fever, strength still distant—but her awareness snapped fully into place.
She knows. I can't pretend anymore.
What do I do? She won't accept me like this. If this fails… I'll have to find another way to survive. Another way to grow stronger.
Sylvaris's gaze pinned her to the bed, unblinking.
"I will teach you some swordsmanship," she said, voice crisp and unyielding. "But do not misunderstand—this does not make you my student."
Rynvaris swallowed.
She said… she'll teach me?
It worked. My effort wasn't wasted. This is the first step—my first foothold in this world.
Hope and fear twisted tightly together. Her lips curved into a small, careful smile, one she did not dare let grow.
"And if you ever pull a stunt like that again…" Sylvaris's eyes darkened. "…I will kill you."
The words sliced cleanly through the air. There was no threat in them—only certainty. That made them far more dangerous than any blade.
She didn't forget.
I wouldn't do something like that again. I know better.
But… I have to thank her.
She saved my life.
Rynvaris's pulse spiked. Before caution could intervene, before thought could slow her, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Sylvaris.
"Thank you… big sis."
Sylvaris stiffened instantly. Her body went rigid, boots clicking sharply as she pulled back a step in reflex.
"Hey—!" she barked, the word cracking through the fragile quiet.
Rynvaris recoiled just as quickly, releasing her. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
"I—I'm sorry," she said hurriedly. "I just… I was really happy."
Sylvaris turned away with a sharp click of her tongue. Her cloak cast shifting shadows across the floor as she moved. Curtains swayed softly. The bed groaned beneath Rynvaris's slight shift.
The room settled again—but the tension did not leave.
Layra, who had been standing near the door, stepped forward cautiously.
"Um… Princess Rayvaris," she asked carefully, her voice hesitant, "earlier, you said you knew who Her Highness loves. May I ask… who is it?"
Rayvaris's pulse quickened. She measured the moment, weighing each word before allowing it to leave her lips. Her thoughts moved quickly, seeking safety not in lies, but in precision.
"It's the people," she answered softly. "The people the First Princess loves."
The words fell quietly—neither bold nor evasive. They were chosen with care, meant to speak truth without inviting danger.
Sylvaris's gaze sharpened.
"If you train under me," she said, crisp and commanding, "you will run thirty laps around the courtyard every single day."
Rayvaris blinked.
"Thirty!?"
"This is your punishment," Sylvaris continued, her tone cold and unyielding. "Your training begins tomorrow. Today, you will rest."
She turned without hesitation. Her boots clicked sharply against the floor, shadows stretching long across the bed as she moved. Even after she left, the weight of her presence lingered. The room seemed to hold its breath. Curtains fluttered softly. The bed groaned beneath Rayvaris's slight shift.
Rayvaris's fingers tightened around the sheets.
Layra offered a careful bow.
"If you need anything, Princess," she said gently, "please call me immediately."
Alone, Rayvaris lay back against the bed. The room felt heavy, still charged with the memory of Sylvaris's presence. Light shifted as shadows lengthened along the walls. Her fragile body ached; every limb felt like it was filled with lead.
"Sword training. Tomorrow."
A small smile tugged at her lips. Weak body. Fragile. But her resolve burned brighter than the pain. No one—no one—would decide her fate for her.
I will get stronger.
I never thought Sylvaris would accept me… but I understood her. She's cold. Distant.
Still… she gave me a chance.
I'll train. No matter how hard it is, I'll get stronger.
Her breathing slowly steadied. Each inhale felt like a quiet act of defiance. Each exhale carried a vow she refused to break.
"I won't die."
The light faded from the windows as night crept in, brushing the walls with deepening shadows. The room seemed to breathe in rhythm with her heart.
"Every pain… every weakness… will be mine to conquer."
For the first time since awakening in this unfamiliar world, Rayvaris allowed herself to sleep. Her thoughts quieted. Her spirit burned low but steady. Her body remained fragile—but determined, bracing itself for the trials waiting beyond morning.
The night pressed close around her.
And somewhere beyond those walls, the world was already shifting—preparing for a struggle she had not yet begun.
By the time night fully settled over the palace, the news had already spread.
Not loudly. Not openly.
But through whispers.
In servant corridors, maids paused mid-step, hands tightening around folded linens.
"Did you hear…?" one murmured, eyes darting toward the ceiling as if Sylvaris herself might be listening.
"The Eleventh Princess," another replied quietly. "They say the First Princess accepted her."
A soft scoff followed.
"Accepted?" a third maid whispered. "That sickly one? She can barely walk across the courtyard."
"She collapsed just yesterday," someone added. "I saw her myself."
Their voices lowered further, unease threading through curiosity.
"Maybe it's just pity."
"Yes… that must be it."
They nodded to one another, relief settling in. Pity was easier to understand than change.
Elsewhere, among the lesser nobles gathered beneath hanging lamps and polished stone, the reaction was far less careful.
"She's training under Sylvaris?" a young noble laughed, lifting his cup. "That's a joke."
"Training?" another echoed with a sneer. "The girl has no talent. No mana. No presence. You can't teach strength to a broken vessel."
Someone waved a hand dismissively. "It won't last. The First Princess is strict—she'll discard her soon enough."
A chorus of agreement followed.
"Even if she survives the training, what then?"
"She'll never amount to anything."
"Exactly."
Their voices carried confidence born from certainty—the certainty that nothing truly changes.
That the weak remain weak.
That miracles do not happen in palaces like this.
And far above them, in a quiet room where the light had long since faded, Rayvaris slept on—unaware that the world had already decided what she would become.
Useless.
Temporary.
Forgettable.
The palace whispered its judgment.
And waited for her to fail.
— The Lost Bet
Two guards lingered near the villa entrance, leaning against the cold stone walls, their faces tight with frustration.
"She got accepted," one muttered, slamming a fist against his thigh. "I still can't believe it. That… girl. She actually got in."
The other let out a low whistle, shaking his head.
"Damn… we lost. All that gold—gone. And she cheated, too. Played that locket like it was nothing."
"Cheated?" the first guard scoffed. "Nah. She just… outsmarted us." He clicked his tongue. "And now she's officially training under the First Princess. There's nothing we can do. We lost, man. We just… lost."
The second guard kicked at a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the stones.
"I knew she was stubborn," he said, grimacing. "But I didn't think she had guts like that. Running herself into illness and all. And Sylvaris… she actually let her train." He shuddered. "Feels like getting roasted alive just thinking about it."
"Tell me about it," the first guard groaned. "Five gold coins down. That locket—gone. And now we have to salute her when we pass her in the halls."
They exchanged a look—half bitter, half unwillingly impressed. A short, humorless laugh escaped them.
"She's trouble," the second guard said at last. "Mark my words… that one's going to make a name for herself."
"And us?" the first replied quietly.
He shrugged.
"We just got burned."
No one noticed the danger. They only noticed that she was still alive.