Soft amber eyes blinked open, glistening with the remnants of early morning sorrow. Rose sighed, shifting upright, her bed damp and uncomfortable after a restless summer night. She rubbed her weary eyes, humming softly as she swung her legs over the edge. The familiar, gritty chill of the stone floor met her bare feet, grounding her in the reality of the new day.
Bringing a hand to her face, she used slender fingers to sweep away the stubborn traces of sleep. The gesture seemed to finally lift the last haze of slumber, yet she remained seated, gazing over her hollow room, lost in the silence that filled the dawn.
No morning light had yet reached her small, stone-walled space, leaving it shrouded in dim, lingering shadows. Her mind, too, seemed stuck in a haze, darkened by memories of a past that felt both hers and not hers. How long had it been since she started living here—five years? Six? She let her gaze drift around the room, her thoughts trailing back to pieces of a life that belonged to Rose, but not to her.
Her eyes sharpened as the room filled with the first warm light of dawn. The sun’s rays crept over the walls, illuminating the sturdy mix of pale stucco and solid stone. Her gaze lingered on the thick stone beam that rose from the center of her cramped space. It wasn’t much to look at—it took up precious room—but it kept the ceiling above her and, thankfully, her upstairs neighbors from crashing down.
She noticed dust settled thickly in the cracks, layers left undisturbed for days, maybe weeks. Her gaze dropped to the gritty stone floor, where specks of dirt glinted faintly in the morning light. She sighed, thinking again that she should clean up…tomorrow.
Her eyes moved to the warped wooden table by the small, grimy window, cluttered with a haphazard mix of dishes and the only metal spoon she owned. The spoons and bowls had streaks of dried food from past meals, some even days past being able to clean easily, but that was a chore she really ought to tackle…tomorrow. After all it was, it was Sixdi.
“Ah, Sixdi…” She murmured, thinking of how it used to be Saturday back where she’d come from. Now it was something else entirely. She shook her weary head, another reminder of how much she’d had to adjust since waking up as Rose. “Day” had become “di,” and while “Six” stayed the same, the other days had shifted. Monday, Tuesday, and all the rest were replaced by Primdi, Dousdi, Troisdi, and so on. Seven days… except, sometimes, a random eighth one would appear, throwing her schedule completely off.
She wavered on the edge of the bed, pressing her fingers to her temples as a dull ache set in. Just one more excuse to leave cleaning for another day—or another di, she corrected with a faint chuckle, though her voice cracked slightly as tears pricked her eyes.
Her whole body ached, stiff from lying on the rough straw mattress these people called a bed. Yet at least there were thirteen weeks in a month now—or, rather, a pillar. It really made rent easy. It had been two years since she’d first woken up in Rose’s life, and she still found herself thinking of things from her own world.
She smiled wearily as her gaze wandered around the room, taking in the humble remnants of what this new life had granted her.
Despite its simplicity, the room provided her with the essentials—a narrow bed, a desk, and a stool where she sat for her meager meals. Though cramped and plain, it was a far cry from the squalor of the city’s slums. Compared to those barely surviving on the streets, she was practically living in luxury on the southern edge of Les Enclos. The restaurant where she worked was in the northern part of the district, just outside Le Lien, near the main trade road. Living in the south of Les Enclos was much cheaper—even if it meant an hour and a half walk each way.
At least her legs were well-toned from the daily trek. A plus of the many years working for a cafe. With a laugh that came out more like a dry cough, Rose pushed herself up from the bed and made her way to the table. Her fingers brushed against the cold, rough wood as she idly reached for a spoon left in one of the chipped bowls. Flicking away the dried remnants of last night’s thin soup, she brought the tin spoon up to her face. In the scratched, warped metal, she caught her reflection—tiny, distorted, and somehow foreign.
Rose sighed. “Little Rose, you’ve gone through so much,” she murmured, her voice soft and heavy. She was talking not to herself but the original. She didn’t like to dwell on what had happened to her. Instead, she pretended the reflection in the mirror was someone else entirely, a stranger she could pity from a distance. It made it easier to cope, especially when she needed someone to confide in about things that would seem crazy to anyone else—like waking up in someone else’s body.
The spoon slipped from her fingers, landing with a sharp thud against the rough wood of the table. Rose’s gaze drifted toward the small, dust-streaked window, where the sky was beginning to lighten into a soft blue. A low groan escaped her lips as she focused on making breakfast. She reached for a bowl from the table, wiping it down with a rag that was “clean enough,” then pressed a small button on the stove. A soft, magical flicker ignited beneath the metal surface, heating it quickly. It was one strange comfort of this fantasy world—even in its medieval-like setting, certain conveniences from her old life had managed to slip in dressed up as magic. The stove, for instance, ran not on electricity but on a magical battery. There was even a functioning toilet in her cramped quarters, though, much to her dismay, toilet paper had not made it into this world.
She poured water into the bowl, putting it on the stove and sat at the table, watching it swirl as she waited for it to boil. In the faint, rippling reflection, she caught the outline of Rose’s face staring back at her. The girl was only a minor villain in a story from her own world.
Fille Delose was a familiar tale of a mistreated girl who discovers she is the center of the world. Not only was she a gifted mage, but she was destined to be celebrated as the saint of the Seven Gods. She would expose the greed and corruption within the royal family, fall in love with a duke's son, battle the world's enemies, and restore honor to long-corrupted family lines. In the end, she would rise as queen, leading everyone toward a brighter future.
But characters in stories like hers rarely find peace. Just as the water in her bowl began to bubble, chaos would distill the young girl's life in such tales, preventing any serene life for a heroine early on. Much like the scraps of cabbage she tossed in, every bump and boil would reshape the young girl’s life. At only six years old, she would lose both her parents, left vulnerable to the cruelty of her aunt, a woman who exploited and abused her for her own gain. And that wicked woman was Rose herself—or rather, the original Rose—the daughter of Rowan from the village of Sayotheo.
Rose stirred the pot with a thin wooden stick, watching the cabbage swirl in the boiling water as she mused about the original Rose's fate. In the story, she was little more than a typical wicked stepmother figure, her evil universally despised yet never explained. Was keeping a home clean really such a crime? She glanced around at the cluttered room, having the young girl clean up for her was… i mean it was a chore, shoulnt children have chores to teach manners or something? It would be nice to have a clean house…
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
She shook her head quickly. Now that she was Rose, she’d make sure that if the child ever found her, she’d be raised as her own, not as a servant. Still even as she acknowledged that Rose was in the wrong, she felt a subtle, insistent urge to empathize with her. After all, who is evil without reason? In the story, Rose had no redeeming qualities, but after a few dreams that drifted down memory lane, she began to see that the woman’s sins weren’t as simple as “just because.”
Life was hard, harder still for a second daughter. Each dream was heartbreaking in its own way. If Fille Delose had ever focused on Rose’s story, it would have cast a very different light on her character’s tragic end. But it was too late now; the old Rose was gone, and even if she tried, she wouldn’t know how to be evil in this world.
This world, after all, was cruel in more ways than Rose’s mistreatment of a child. Men were hanged simply because a noble didn’t like the look of them. People starved in the streets, and the city only ever saw them as nuisances only because they’d soon rot and stink. This place was deviously dangerous, and no one cared if their neighbor went missing. It was one of the reasons she kept to herself and stayed on the main roads, moving quickly from one place to the next. And it was also why no one seemed bothered when an entire village disappeared.
She had done what she could to warn them of impending danger. Letting little Dahlia stay with her parents would be the best thing for all involved, even though they’d played a part in Rose’s suffering. They weren’t entirely to blame—again, life here was hard, and it was the harsh circumstances that had truly shaped Rose’s miserable existence.
As the second daughter of a man who could no longer work, Rose had grown up in poverty, her family perhaps regretting their decision to keep a second daughter. Her father’s pride kept him from accepting charity from the local lord, forcing the family to scrape by because he insisted on being the “man of the family.” Yet once again, he was not entirely to blame. After all, It was the only socially acceptable choice he could make. Any other would have seen him ostracized from the village, his family labeled a burden, left to survive with even less. Forgotten if they stared.
Even then, it was impossible to blame her family or even circumstance alone. The original Rose had pushed that young girl to work until she was exhausted, finding some grim satisfaction in watching her niece—who so resembled her older sister—suffer. After all, it was her sister who had received everything. Rose had only been left with scraps.
“It’s no wonder, though,” she muttered as she turned off the stove, breakfast finally ready. “The girl looks just like Iris, save for her eyes…” She recalled how the author had emphasized their color. They might appear blue at first glance, but in truth, they were a deep purple—the unmistakable mark of the man who had wounded Rose so deeply that she’d fled the village.
Her first, and only love.
Bringing her bowl of cabbage soup to the table after it had cooled, she picked up her trusty tin spoon and began her breakfast. “This could use salt,” she laughed dryly.
Everything could use salt. Unfortunately, it cost 23 bron for just a single ounce—or ceau, as they called it here. Twenty-three Bron coins for one ceau was far beyond her price range. Still, cabbage had a bit of natural salt in it, so… “Hehe.” She laughed miserably, trying to trick herself into enjoying the bland, simple soup. At least the restaurant allowed its employees to take away the scraps left behind. If only she had a bit more seniority, she might even be able to take some meat now and then but as it is, she is far from the favorite.
As she chewed, her gaze drifted out the window, and her thoughts turned to the letter she’d sent. It had seemed like a good first step toward warning them of the danger. What danger, exactly? She didn’t entirely know; the story only began once Delihla was living with Rose. The real problem was that most of her family couldn’t read. Maybe the Chevrain could help—her family had always been held in high regard, after all. And if not, the local lord got along well enough with her father that he might offer his assistance.
Of course, there was also the matter of who carried the letter. She’d entrusted it to a merchant who might pass through the area, but as far out of the way as Sayotheo was, there was every chance he’d tossed it aside and pocket the coin. She’d only paid him a few Bron, after all.
Swirling the last dregs of her breakfast around in the bowl, she mulled over the problem. She had thought more than a few times about returning to Sayotheo herself, but it would cost over ten cuivre just for the journey, and the gate tax alone was six bron. Ten cuivre could buy more than a thousand loaves of bread. Right now, she had enough for only five, maybe six?
Borders were growing tighter, too. She’d only reached the city by sheer luck, and by all rights, Rose should be a corpse never to be found again. Perhaps she only survived because she needed to be in the city to torment Delihla. Her brow furrowed as she looked over at the empty space on the table that served as her pantry. “When did I run out of bread?” she murmured. In the corner of the table was an empty plate, crumbs circled it sure, but there were three slices of bread there…right?.
She clicked her curiosity away. “I really need a better job.” she muttered, saying it as if it were the simplest thing in the world, though her work as a waitress earned her six bron and two ètains a day. Bread alone cost two ètains per loaf, so those few extra tin coins each day bought her a loaf. But where did the rest of her earnings go? If anyone looked around her home, it would be a complete mystery.
She reached for a small pouch, tipping it to count out the last eight ètains she owned. “Getting paid at the end of each day sucks,” she mused, missing the days when her pay had come in a nice, if small, lump sum every two weeks. She scoffed softly.
“I really need a better life,” she joked to no one but herself. Those dangerous words had gotten her reincarnated the first time, but really, how bad could it get? Wasn’t reincarnation supposed to be miraculous? She was supposed to be the center of things, maybe a heroine or a visionary—yet here she was, just another peasant scraping by in a city full of commoners. Still, a flicker of hope stirred in her chest, excitement even. After all, she knew this story. And she even had a degree in marketing! Well… almost. College was expensive, and FAFSA only stretched so far for an online program.
Throwing the spoon onto the table, she stretched, readying herself for the day. “Whatever,” she muttered, casting aside her worries with a single word. Hopefully, the letter would reach her family, and they’d be able to act on it. She had disguised it as a prophecy from Lumièreon, the god of guidance and wisdom, hoping that would lend her words enough credibility to avoid too many questions.
If she was lucky, it might even attract political support from L'Sept, the church of the Seven. Then again, this could also bring unwanted attention from Lumidés; a true prophecy from Lumièreon would certainly catch the zealots’ interest. She couldn’t help but giggle softly to herself. A minor villain teaming up with the sinister religious entity of the original story—it was a match made in heaven.
She glanced around at the squalor surrounding her. Maybe it would be worth it—anything to escape this life. “Eh, it could be worse,” she shrugged, pushing the thought aside as she set out to start her day. “I could have been reborn as a chicken.” Free-range might have been alright, but too many never see the sun…