I recentred myself.

Because that was what you did when your brain and body were doing the tango without you.

Easy fix – just focus on something else and wait for the melancholy to drain away.

Tears would stop. Eventually.

I zeroed in on the notebook in front of me, filled with scribbles. A chaotic mess of unknown linguistic dots.

It was all about the language I now spoke. Totally different. No idea how I was even speaking it. I just did.

It was called Verodian.

Basically, it boasted a diverse range of sounds – click consonants and nasalized vowels. The alphabetic script resembled a mashup of geometric shapes and flowing lines.

SVO order. Verbs were conjugated for tense, aspect, and mood. Nouns for number and case.

And boy, the vocabulary and pragmatics? It would take me a while to get used to it.

For example, if someone asked, "Syl'ethra, ela'shan?" (How are you today?), the correct response was something like, "Sindar'ethros, thiril elen." (I am mentally sane.)

….

Yeah, I would stop with these.

Oh, look, tears were almost gone now. Bye to melancholy, hopefully, you’d never show your face again.

Anyways, out of that nerdy linguistic stuff, fast forward to the highlight reel of my current fantasy family. My dad had taken a sabbatical in his own head, my stepmother had snagged the role of the Ice Queen, and my siblings were perfecting the art of treating me like the unnoticed wallpaper. Not a single eye contact, not even a courtesy nod.

No wonder Eli embraced the psychopath life; the poor girl just needed a cozy hug or two! If only I could unleash the unparalleled cuteness I knew was within me, I was dead sure they'd be scrambling for front-row seats.

The gravitational pull of a villainess armed with a strategic dose of cuteness?

I couldn't help but giggle at the mental image.

Ah, but here was the hiccup – my eyes. Those pesky, intimidating crimson eyes that seemed to have been invited to the wrong ball.

There was something seriously awry with them. Even I got a twinge of fear when I accidentally catch a glimpse in the mirror. Unlocking my cuteness factor? Easier said than done.

In the midst of my profound musings, the symphony of my contemplation was rudely interrupted by approaching footsteps.

I furrowed my brow; evening visitors weren't exactly a common occurrence in this study.

Lo and behold, Richard, my second brother, strutted in with a frown.

A physique that could make a runway model rethink their life choices, complete with blue hair like mine and emerald eyes.

“What's this load of rubbish you're wasting time on? The family's been waiting for you at dinner.”

Ah, Richard, the connoisseur of charm. If only he could bottle his manners and sell them, the world would be a more polite place.

"Just expanding my horizons, dear brother. Why not focus on your own business?"

And the mention of family waiting for me? Utter balderdash. Everyone knew Eli dined solo in her room.

Seemingly caught off guard by my sass, Richard blinked in momentary surprise.

"What's amiss with you lately? I am your elder brother; you have no right to address me in such a manner."

"Oh, forgive me, eLdEr StAtEsMaN of politeness. I thought rudeness was our family's second language," I drawled.

"What in the name of Moonweaver are you even saying, Eli?"

Ah, sometimes my sentences just come out fully formed. It was a work in progress.

"Yeah, I think I see what’s happening here," he continued.

I would be more surprised if he did.

He scoffed, closing the distance, and slammed both of his hands on my desk. The inkpot decided to join the jerk, rolling away and liberally baptizing my notebook.

I didn’t flinch. Instead, I kept my gaze locked with his.

"No time for your pretentious nonsense. Get a move on before everyone loses their appetite."

With the subtlety of a charging rhino, he slammed my notebook shut and then proceeded to grab my hands, dragging me away with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop.

Surprisingly, physical violence had yet to make an entrance into this little drama.

A silver lining, I mused.

This guy seemed eager for a showdown, and, truth be told, I was game. My punches might not have been heavyweight, but my jaw strength was a hidden talent not to be underestimated.

Yet, oddly, I chose to play the passive card as he pulled me out of the study.

Resistance would be futile, or so I reasoned.

Sometimes, the best battles were the ones not fought – at least for now.

What really threw me off was the unexpected audience waiting for me—my family. A novel development, considering I'd been ghosting through this body for five days, and the only attention I'd received was from a diligent maid. Even my father, who made a brief appearance on my awakening day, pulled a vanishing act right after.

Fast forward through the intricate maze of my family's mansion, with Richard towing me like a disgruntled baggage, and there we were, teetering on the precipice of the dining room.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

As we crossed the threshold, Mr. Tough Guy did a sudden about-face, adopting a tone of feigned concern.

“Sorry we're late, everyone. Our dear Eli was just playing in the study, you know how she is. Had to coax her out of there,” he announced, relinquishing his grip on my wrist.

I shot him a look that could curdle milk.

Clearly, he was attempting to paint a peculiar picture. I was nine, and this guy could easily double as my ancient counterpart. I stood there, momentarily dumbfounded, before realizing that the entire family was now giving us the collective side-eye.

Feeling the need to salvage the situation, I stammered, “Y-yeah, apologies for my unexpected playing session, but I'm here now.”

I smiled as I winced internally; my delivery felt about as smooth as a cactus.

Richard moved on with a grin plastered on his face, and I followed suit, my movements resembling a particularly awkward dance routine.

As we approached the dining area, my senses were bombarded by the intoxicating aroma of mouthwatering dishes.

The scent guided me to my assigned seat, conveniently situated just a whisker away from the youngest family member, Daniel.

Taking stock of the scene, I discovered the rare sight of the entire family gathered around the dining table. Count Shadowstep, the patriarch, exuded authority, while his elegant wife embraced the role of the lady of the manor, practically broadcasting, "Yes, we own this place."

Seated next to me was the youngest son, Daniel, exuding an air of someone contemplating the merits of enduring family chatter in exchange for the promise of dessert.

"Happy birthday, Eli," my father chimed in, initiating a synchronized raising of glasses in a toast to celebrate my existence.

…..

…..

…..

Wait, today was my birthday?

And they chose this moment, amidst dinner and after an entire day of blissful ignorance, to casually drop that bomb?

I was genuinely surprised. That was a first.

Classic Shadowstep family move.

As they all lifted their glasses, that grinning bastard Richard included, I couldn't decide whether to be more shocked at the revelation or annoyed at the impeccably timed bombshell.

Regardless, the mere acknowledgment of my existence and the birthday wishes were progress in the Shadowstep household. (Cope.)

Oh, how my little heart fluttered. (Ugh.)

The revelation that it was my birthday explained the fancier-than-usual dinner spread – steak instead of the usual bread and soup. It looked positively mouthwatering.

As if on cue, my younger brother Daniel, the adorable chubby one, piped up with an innocent inquiry, "Father, why is the sky red?"

If only he wasn't so hell bent on avoiding me.

Glancing out the window, I indeed noticed a reddish hue in the night sky.

This was undoubtedly another world. According to the novel, Eli was born on the first day of the Purgatory Comet at midnight – a celestial event known by various ominous names like the "Killing Star," the "Comet of Hell," or "Reaper Comets."

Superstitions labeled those born on this day as messengers from hell or grim reapers. It was all steeped in the delightful concoction of fantasy and paranoia.

Oh, boy, I pondered all of this while sipping on strange red juice with a taste that was a bizarre blend of mango and orange – weird but oddly nice.

"Today marks the appearance of the Purgatory Comet. Its celestial display spans five days, occurring once in every decade," Dad chimed in, stealing a glance my way.

And hey, this weird juice was kind of growing on me. Mental note: hit up the chefs for the name later.

"I, too, was born during the Killing Star, albeit on its final day," my eldest brother, Zach, chimed in.

Blue hair, emerald eyes, the family's genetic signature. However, while the rest of the family was built like scholars, he had a tall and athletic physique that exuded action hero vibes.

"Well, at least your eyes aren't as creepy as Eli's," Richard remarked, practically inviting a knuckle sandwich.

Yet, he seemed to have overlooked the fact that he was seated right next to Zach.

Richard winced suddenly, and I suspected he had received a swift kick under the table.

"Haha, Richard, I told you to refrain from jesting about it, did I not?" Zach laughed.

He was the only one treating me like a regular sister, unlike old Eli, who seemed to be on a sibling-detachment program.

"And we are all aware that the notions about individuals born on the first day of the Killing Star being ominous are mere superstitions. His Highness, the royal prince, is as ordinary as they come, though he does have a smidgen of red in his eyes, just like our little Eli."

Looked like he was my main squeeze for sibling bonding. Oh, the thrill. As for the royal prince, memories of less-than-pleasant reads from the novel popped up, but for now, I could afford not to give a damn.

Our county wasn't exactly rolling in dough; typically, our dinners were a humble affair of bread and a modest soup with a sprinkle of meat bits.

So, my birthday bash marked a departure from our usual bread-and-soup routine, elevating it to a grander spectacle, starring a glorious steak that practically begged to be devoured.

Bon appétit! Time to dig in.

I reached for the fork and knife set laid out before me.

And my breath was taken away.

In this world, this marked my maiden voyage into wielding a knife. The blade, sharp and serrated, held my fascination like a moth drawn to a flame.

Ahh, the cool steel in my hands, the very embodiment of sharpness crafted for the singular purpose of effortlessly slicing through the tender.

I luxuriated in the sensation, a grin forming on my face as I slowly guided the knife into the steak's soft texture.

The sheer exhilaration sent shivers down my spine.

Withdrew. Plunged in again.

The knife's keen edge effortlessly transforming a part of the tender steak into bite-sized, delectable pieces. And all of this performed with the grace befitting a noble lady, while my veins buzzed with the purest form of serotonin.

The blade. The steak. A delicate dance.

Yielding. Of tenderness to the sharpness.

Slicing through a corner of the steak, I lifted it with my fork and indulged in the first taste.

The marriage. Of meat juices and barbecue sauce. A symphony of flavors.

I relished each succulent bite.

Then, my gaze lingered longingly on the serrated knife's blade. Ah, so sharp, so satisfying.

As I licked its edges, the sauce dripped, adding an extra layer of deliciousness.

Repeating the process, I cut more small pieces of meat, relishing the sensation of cleanly slicing through the meat with the knife.

Ahh, the sheer joy!

However, my moment of blissful knife play was rudely interrupted by the ever-watchful eyes of Father.

"Eli, cease toying with your food," Dad admonished, coughing out the reprimand. "Don't overlook your etiquette lessons. Also, your mage aptitude exam is in two months; prepare diligently for it."

Eeeep! Startled, I was yanked back to reality from my food-fuelled reverie.

As the dinner table fell into an awkward silence, I seized a bigger chunk of meat, quickly stuffing it into my mouth to dodge further scrutiny.

"Apologies, Father," I mumbled through a mouthful of steak, employing the classic technique of eating away my problems.

Once the somewhat awkward dinner concluded, I excused myself and sprinted back to the study.

All while my heart raced.

Ah, the ways of adapting to a new life! The fascination with sharp objects, the undeniable urge to slice through tender things – it all made me ponder if I were the actual villainess of the novel I once read.

These urges. They lingered in the background of my mind, initially dismissed as harmless and easily manageable.

After all, it had only been a short five days in this world, and I hadn't done anything remotely violent.

I was confident I could work through these peculiar quirks.

…..

Nah, I really needed some mental help.

I sighed, surveying the desk where ink had been carelessly spilled, turning my once-neat notes into a chaotic mess.

Lacking the proper tools, cleaning up the ink was an endeavour for another time.

Pulling back the sleeve of my dress, I noticed a slight bruise on my wrist.

My emotions were a jumble—neither angry nor sad, just a peculiar numbness.

My gaze shifted to the night sky, capturing my attention with its irresistible allure.

Unable to resist, I opened the window and gazed outside. My crimson eyes, reflecting the hue of the sky, locked onto the ongoing celestial shower.

Celestial minstrels. The crimson curtain of space.

The interplay. Between the infinite and the transient.

Each streak, a radiant note. A symphony of cosmic origins and wanderlust.

As if the night itself stared back, there was no fear, just an uncanny sense of familiarity, reminiscent of the moments when I first transmigrated into this world.

A cloak of red light enveloped me, swift and transient.

Something stirred within, awakening.

Mesmerized, I found myself unable to look away.

Drawn, into the waltz of the crimson night.

The world before my eyes parted ways, and something materialized—a tear in the fabric of reality, a single slice before it expanded into a whole screen.

[Killing Star That Wanders The Cosmos] gazes upon you.