The first thing Emma noticed was how soft everything felt. Her body sank into something impossibly plush. Her skin tingled beneath a layer of silk so smooth, it felt almost slippery. Her nose was filled with the scent of lilacs, waxed wood, and something she couldn't name maybe a kind of perfume or incense. She blinked slowly, her lashes sticking together, and focused on a canopy overhead embroidered with what looked like silver stars and golden leaves. Ornate columns framed each corner of the bed, carved with ivy and lion heads.
This wasn't her room. This wasn't even her world.
She sat up abruptly and immediately regretted it. Her head throbbed with a sharp, stabbing pain that made her groan and press a hand to her temple. She shut her eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass, then opened them again.
Still there. The ridiculous bed. The carved wooden walls. The faint candlelight. The impossibly realistic dream.
But it wasn't a dream.
Because she remembered everything.
One minute, she'd been in her tiny studio apartment in Boston, microwaving leftover dumplings, the next she was standing on a marble balcony, watching the sky swirl with two suns, and then—darkness. Now here she was. Alive. Awake.
And not in her own body.
The door creaked open.
A girl in a crisp maid's uniform peeked in, her eyes wide and anxious. She was about Emma's age, maybe younger, with dark hair tied into a neat braid and a nervous expression that made her look perpetually guilty of something.
"M-Miss Hart? Are you... awake?" she asked hesitantly.
Emma stared at her. Hart.
The name hit her like a punch.
Lila Hart.
Her mouth went dry.
It was impossible. Completely insane. But it explained everything. The body wasn't hers. The world wasn't hers. And the name Lila Hart was so familiar it made her stomach twist.
Because Emma Davis had read Crimson Oaths and Silver Crown twelve times. And Lila Hart?
Lila was a background character. A minor noble's daughter who appeared briefly in the early chapters, existed long enough to cry once, and then died.
Unloved. Unnoticed. Forgotten.
A throwaway.
She wasn't a villainess. She wasn't even interesting. She was a footnote.
In Chapter 22, she'd been pushed down a staircase by a jealous noble girl who thought she was flirting with the Crown Prince. She broke her neck and died instantly.
That was it. That was her entire role in the story.
And now... Emma was her.
She swallowed hard. Her mind raced as she tried to recall every detail she could about Lila—family, friends, allies. What did she know?
Lila had an older brother stationed at the northern border, a mother who'd died of fever when she was young, and a father—Baron Frederick Hart—who was in debt and terrified of losing favor at court. Their estate was modest. Their influence was minimal. Lila had been used as a bargaining chip, like so many noble daughters, but no suitor had ever shown interest. She didn't have magic. She didn't have beauty that turned heads. She didn't even have wit.
She just... existed.
And now Emma was stuck in her life.
"I... think I hit my head," Emma said slowly, forcing the words through dry lips. "I don't remember... much."
The maid gasped softly. "You fainted, miss. Three days ago. You collapsed at breakfast, and Master Hart sent for a physician. He said you were exhausted—your nerves, perhaps."
That fits, Emma thought, her brain kicking into high gear. In the book, Lila faints after overhearing that her family's estate is being taxed beyond recovery. It's the beginning of her spiral—poverty, shame, humiliation... then death.
"No lasting injury," the maid continued, "but you've been asleep ever since."
Emma nodded slowly, filing the information away. "What's your name?"
"Marah, miss."
"All right, Marah. Can you tell the steward I'll be down for tea shortly?"
Marah blinked in surprise. "You... want to leave your room?"
Lila never did, Emma realized. She was always tucked away. Out of sight, out of mind.
"Yes," she said firmly. "I think some fresh air will do me good."
Marah hesitated, then curtsied. "Of course, miss. I'll inform the steward right away."
She slipped out, leaving Emma alone.
Emma swung her legs over the edge of the bed, surprised by how light this body felt. Lila was shorter than her, thinner, more delicate. Her skin looked almost translucent in the mirror across the room. She rose slowly, testing her balance. The polished stone floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she approached the mirror and studied her reflection.
Wide green eyes. Honey-blonde hair falling in waves past her shoulders. A softly curved face, lips slightly parted. She looked... pretty. Not stunning. Not striking. But sweet. Harmless.
Forgettable.
Perfect, Emma thought. Exactly what I need to survive.
Because if no one noticed her, no one would try to kill her.
That was Rule #1: Don't draw attention.
And Rule #2?
Stay away from the plot.
But already, things were shifting. Her awakening had changed something, she could feel it. Like the air had thickened, charged with a low hum. A warning.
And then it happened.
A sudden, sharp voice not spoken, but felt ripped through her mind.
"You are not Lila Hart."
Emma staggered back from the mirror, clutching the side of a nearby table. The words echoed like thunder, fading as quickly as they came.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
The voice wasn't her own.
It was old. Cold. Watching.
She stared at her reflection again, suddenly aware that she wasn't alone.
Not in this world. Not even in this body.
Something had noticed her arrival.
Something ancient.
Something patient.
And it had just spoken her name.