Then I stopped mid-stride.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
If I was the niece of the villain, that meant—plot-wise—I was a side character with a potential redemption arc!
The type who could either die tragically or… switch sides and become awesome.
A slow grin spread across my face. "Oh, I like this. I like this a lot."
But of course, nothing in this cursed world came easy.
If the famine and the fever were already spreading, it meant the plot was about to hit its first major turning point:
The royal knights' inspection.
And guess whose territory they'd visit first?
Exactly—the outer regions.
Meaning this half-ruined mansion of mine was next on the list.
So yes, any day now, the capital's soldiers—and Sir Alex Canva, the male lead himself—would arrive at my doorstep.
I should've been terrified.
Instead, my brain was like: What if he's hotter in person?
Focus, Seraphine. Focus.
A few hours of thinking later.
I sat at my old wooden desk again, lit by one flickering candle, and grabbed the nearest parchment (which I think was actually someone's old tax receipt).
"Right," I said to myself. "Let's write this down like a sane person."
Operation: Don't Die, Maybe Flirt
Avoid getting involved in dark sorcery. (Obvious, but good to remember.)Make sure The Duke (Not-The-Villain-One) doesn't trust his crazy brother.Smile at the knights when they come, but not too much.If Sir Alex Canva appears, act normal. Don't quote his love confession scene like a maniac.Find food. Because if the famine keeps up, I'm gonna end up as soup myself.Learn MagicBe rich
I leaned back, sighing. The candlelight flickered, throwing long shadows across the cracked walls.
So this was my life now—
I shivered.
As I crawled into the creaky bed, one thought lingered.
If I really was the niece of Duke Tayler Agro, then his fall would still drag my family down.
And when Sir Alex Canva arrived to investigate the spreading sickness… he'd eventually have to choose between his duty—and whoever I'd become in this rewritten story.
Well, good luck to him.
Because I wasn't planning on dying quietly.
Not this time.
I rubbed my arms, trying to shake the chill. If the story's timeline was correct, then the famine was only just beginning.
Meaning I had time—maybe months—before the capital discovered my "father's twin" experiments and the chaos began.
Which meant one thing:
I needed a survival plan.
"Okay, Seraphine," I muttered, pacing. "Step one: Don't die. Step two: Don't become evil. Step three: Avoid any plotlines that involve knights, princesses, or suspicious glowing potions and that evil uncle."
Easier said than done. Because if my uncle was already dabbling in dark sorcery, then this entire mansion was sitting on top of a ticking magical bomb.
And knowing how novels like this go, that brooding knight—Sir Alex Canva—would eventually come here on royal orders to investigate.
And me?
I'd probably get caught in the crossfire. Or worse—fall for him.
"Ugh. Nope. Not happening," I said out loud, even as my traitorous heart whispered maybe a little.
****
The next morning, I woke to violent, disrespectful knocking on my bedroom door.
I groaned into my pillow like a dying walrus.
I was supposed to stay lazy today.
This was supposed to be the fantasy part of my fantasy life — you know, waking up at noon, no responsibilities, no bills, no toxic family members throwing shade from across the breakfast table.
But no.
Someone decided to audition for the role of "Door-Knocker from Hell."
"Milady, please wake up!"
The door creaked open and in came Coffi — yes, Coffi — a sixteen-year-old maid whose name promised caffeine but whose existence delivered only disappointment.
She shuffled in carrying a tray…
And I swear to the Moon Goddess above…
It was the saddest looking tea I had ever seen.
Like someone boiled depression and poured it into a chipped cup.
"What the hell is this, Coffi?" I croaked.
She blinked innocently. "This is your favorite tea, milady."
God. No.
Absolutely not.
I needed real coffee, not this cup of leaf-flavored regret.
I eyed the tiny plate containing an even sadder piece of bread. Dry. Pale. Crusty in a way that offended me personally.
"So, Coffi," I sighed, "what's my schedule for today?"
"Schedule?" she echoed like it was a foreign word.
"Nothing, my lady. The Duke said you need to rest more."
Rest? REST?!
Girl, I am FAT.
I don't need rest — I need to run, I need to sweat, I need to cry dramatically while jogging like those women in emotional movie montages.
"I need…" I held my belly with both hands like it personally betrayed me,
"…Do we have a place where I can run? I mean… this belly fat. It needs JESUS."
Coffi stared at me like I had grown horns.
"Are you sure, my lady?"
Oh, sweetheart. If only you knew how sure I was.
*****
A few hours later, I discovered why Coffi looked at me as if I had announced I wanted to climb Mount Everest naked.
Because this body — this gorgeous, thick, famine-defying body — couldn't walk five steps without screaming for air like a Victorian woman fainting on a couch.
We made it to the poor excuse of a garden outside the mansion. "Garden" was generous. It looked like nature gave up halfway through. A few sad bushes, some wilted flowers, and a bench that had definitely seen trauma.
Still, I was determined.
And sweaty.
Mostly sweaty.
Meanwhile, I sat in the garden shed asking — begging — for sugar in my tea.
Coffi wrung her hands, eyes wide, voice trembling like she was sharing national secrets.
"The mansion doesn't have any sugar, milady… It's very expensive. The Duke cannot afford it."
I stared at her.
At the tea.
At the depressing bread.
At the garden that looked like it wanted to die again.
Oh.
God.
Not only was I fat, but I was fat in poverty.
The universe was clearly playing on hard mode.
So, I took a deep breath.
A very loud, very unnecessary deep breath.
"Okay," I told Coffi, who looked like she was mentally preparing my funeral.
"I'm going to run. Just… stand there in case I collapse. Or roll."
She nodded with the solemnity of someone assisting a criminal execution.
I took my first step.
Then my second.
By step three, my lungs immediately filed for divorce.
By step five, my vision dimmed like bad WiFi.
By step seven—
I wheezed.
Not a cute little huff-huff.
No.
I wheezed like a haunted accordion being squeezed by a ghost with asthma.
"Milady?! Are you breathing?" Coffi squeaked. "Why don't you—"
"I—I think so—" WHEEZE "—but also maybe not—"
I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to suck in oxygen like it was luxury perfume I couldn't afford.
And then—
because the goddess loves drama—my father, the Duke, appeared at the garden gate.
"Seraphine?" He blinked. "Are you… dying?"
A great question, honestly.