Elyandra had already understood two absolute truths about the new world in which she was reborn:
First, she was no ordinary child.
Second, this wasn't exactly a blessing.
Waking up in a room bathed in golden light, surrounded by silk curtains and raised in absolute silence, should be the dream of any six-year-old.
Except if that child is, in fact, a thirty-two-year-old man who died naked in the bathroom after winning the biggest digital war in history.
"Six years. Six damn years in this," the man thought, looking at the ceiling decorated with frescoes of blond and too muscular angels for my liking.
There was something profoundly wrong with waking up every day being called "milady," "miss saint," or "little star." It didn't help that I was worshipped as if I were the reincarnation of some divine entity. Because, apparently, I was a somewhat rare girl around here.
My name was now Elyandra Valemortis.
Daughter of Saint Altheria of Lys, a former priestess of the Church of divine light with 72% Ancient Blood in her body, which already made her a kind of genetic masterpiece, and of a very high caste nobleman whose name alone caused tremors among aristocrats, bankers and bishops.
Valemortis. One of the richest Houses in the Empire of divine light. Heiress of land, faith and power accumulated for generations.
And I, the little one here, reincarnated with no less than 98% pure Ancient Blood running through these thin and frighteningly fluffy veins.
Ancient Blood, for those who have just arrived in this soap opera, like me, is a very rare mystical-genetic trait that connects mortals to celestial beings, its purity made the carriers have perfect organs, perfect bones, a surreal magic resistance and affinity and even a surprising mana control, people like this are practically genetic anomalies. It is not only rare, it is treated as currency, as art, as status. The higher the purity, the higher the value. Carriers with more than 60% are considered living relics. I? I was basically a diamond who walks, talks and grimaces at the mirror.
And, of course, in a society where people like this can be "bought", guess what happened to my mother?
It was sold.
A sacred gift, wrapped in gold chains and diplomatic ties.
Bought by my father.
His name? I have not yet heard it being said naturally. It is always accompanied by titles, bows or an awkward silence. Some call him Lord of the Silver Throne, others The Last Sun of Nobility, and there is a group within the Church that calls him the Blessed Consort of the Holy Mother, which is hilarious considering he treats my mother like a valuable knick-knack and rarely speaks to her more than three words a week.
But, well, technically... He's my father. And if I want to take over this world, I'm going to have to play this board straight.
Today, for example, was the day to receive the ambassadors of the Church of divine light, and I had already memorized all the ceremonial talks of last night while pretending to be asleep.
From an early age, I learned to smile with my eyes without showing my teeth, to slightly bend my neck without looking submissive, and to walk as if the ground owed me reverence. The preceptors prided themselves on how I handled silverware, maintained my composure even in the face of blessing-obsessed bishops, and used the right intonation to appear heavenly naïve. The truth? It was all theater. But on this stage of gold and blood, knowing how to act was the minimum to survive.
In fact, I say "pretend" to sleep because that's what I've been doing since I was two years old. By the time I was six, I had already realized that it was too dangerous to let people know that I understood everything. That I remembered everything. Especially when you live in a golden cage surrounded by sycophants, fanatics, and power-hungry aristocrats with a very uncomfortable fixation on mystical little children.
"Milady Elyandra. said the maid, falling silent like a polite shadow. "The bath is ready. His mother waits in the ceremonial garden."
"Bathing," in this case, meant a purification ritual with flowers gathered by wild virgins to the sound of harps and psalms. Simple thing."
"Thank you, Solemn," I replied in my sweet, angelic voice trained over six years of inner suffering."
"FatalPrincess never died. She just... changed skins."
The servants had dressed me as a porcelain doll, a little girl with snow-white hair, golden-gold eyes, a lacy veil, sky-blue ribbon braided into her hair, white flower perfume. My feet barely made a sound over the marble as I made my way to the ceremonial garden, where Mother was waiting for me among lilies and gentle breezes.
But then, before the central staircase, his shadow fell over the hallway.
"Elyandra."
I stopped immediately.
There he was: Lord Vaelric Valemortis, wearing his usual black silk robe studded with the silver symbol of the House. Tall, his hair as white as the bones of a martyr, eyes like cast iron, heavy, almost uncomfortable to look at. His presence bended the air, as if the very gravity of the Empire was anchored in him.
"Father. I spoke with restrained sweetness, bowing slightly, like a flower bending in the wind. "Do you want my attention?"
"Report. He didn't smile. He never smiled. "Your health." Is it stable?"
"Strong as the east wall of Auren, Dad. I joked, with an almost mischievous smile. He didn't take the bait.
"And your studies?"
"Moving forward." The Celestial Latin lessons are a bit complicated, but I already correct the tutor's mistakes. I replied, eyes shining just a little too brightly.
He just nodded, his jaw clenching for a second.
"Your mother asked about you yesterday. Were... Tired. The word stuck in his throat like something he didn't want to admit.
"She always asks about me. I replied quietly, and bowed briefly again. "I love you with everything in me.
"Then protect her." Including herself.
That last sentence came sharp.
"Always." She said, with a soft smile, but her fingers discreetly twitched the side of her dress.
The silence weighed down.
"Excuse me, Dad. I bowed slightly and left before any more veiled blades were thrown. "Mom awaits me among the lilies.
And I left, without running, without hesitation, feeling his eyes burning on my back like the sun covered by clouds of lead.
The ceremonial garden was wide and ornate, with rows of exotic flowers that danced in the gentle breeze. Elyandra, fresh out of her ritual bath, walked with small, studied steps, as she had been trained. The servants had perfumed his skin with floral essences and combed his hair with almost religious delicacy. She wore a white dress with gold details, appropriate for the occasion — the meeting with her mother.
Sitting on a stone bench under a tree with silver leaves, Altheria awaited her. His presence radiated serenity. Her long black hair was loose, and her violet eyes, calm, watched her daughter tenderly. She exuded an aura of wisdom and restrained strength—traces of her past as a priestess of the Church.
"My lotus flower," she said with a gentle smile as she saw her daughter approaching. "It's more grown up than yesterday.
Elyandra stood before her and bowed gently, her hands clasped together like a noble little lady.
"Good morning, Mom.
Altheria guided her to sit next to him. For a moment, they were just silent, listening to the distant sound of the fountains and the birds singing.
"The time has come, Elyandra," Altheria said, pulling a small velvet case from the inside pocket of her cloak. "Are you ready to carry the symbol of those who have the Old Blood?"
The girl just nodded, looking at the case with bright eyes, not of emotion, but of disguised calculation. The symbol her mother was referring to was a somewhat simple but imposing earring, black as obsidian, shaped to attach to the base of the ear like a mark.
"This earring is the seal of your heritage," Altheria explained, as she gently fastened it to her daughter's ear. "Everyone who possesses Ancient Blood carries it. It is our blessing, but also our burden.
Elyandra remained motionless, with the polite smile she had learned to wear from an early age. Inside, his mind was buzzing.
"So that's how they're going to mark me. Like cattle. An accessory to be admired... or watched."
Altheria continued, with the calm tone of someone reciting a prayer.
"The Ancient Blood is power. It expands physical capabilities, sharpens the senses, and confers resistance to diseases and spells, not only that, but it will also greatly expand your magical affinities. But it also attracts attention. Noble families see us as living relics, and there are those who exchange their own daughter for a child with blood like theirs.
"Oh, how wonderful... as if I wasn't already a trophy with legs."
"So you must maintain poise, grace, and silence when necessary," Altheria said, resting his hand on hers. "People don't need to know what they feel. Just what you should see.
Elyandra smiled.
"Yes, Mom. I understand. His voice was sweet, but his childish gaze carried a silent glow of something more.
She didn't hate her mother. Altheria was, as far as she knew, the only one who really cared about her. But the logic of that world made him nauseous. His mind, although young, was already drawing up plans — plans that would require time, masks... and temporary obedience.
She held her mother's hand with affection and nestled in her arm. To all eyes, she was just an adorable little girl in an affectionate moment.
Inside, she was a prisoner queen, smiling at the bars that surrounded her, calculating the day when she would make a point of seeing them melt under her will.
Elyandra Valemortis's routine was timed with surgical precision.
As soon as the first rays of the morning touched the towers of the mansion, his studies began. Imperial history, politics, religion, etiquette, arcane languages, every hour dedicated to shaping it into something it didn't ask to be. In the breaks, there were practical classes: posture, calligraphy, music, fencing. Even the way she walked through the corridors was rehearsed, as if it were part of a show in which she was the protagonist... but never the author.
Although no one told her directly, Elyandra knew exactly what she represented in this place. There was no magic seal or red-hot iron on her skin, but she carried on her back, in her flesh and soul, the invisible mark that everyone saw on her, the symbol of a rare good, of a precious commodity.
She was not a daughter. Not even a divine blessing. It was an investment. An expensive, valuable, disposable product if it broke.
That night, after her studies, Elyandra went up to her room alone. The maid blew out the candles one by one, wished her good night, and left, leaving the girl in the dim light. The silence was absolute, except for the soft sound of the wind crashing against the window.
In her bedroom adorned in soft shades of pale pink and pearly white, Elyandra sat on the edge of her bed, her feet dangling in the air as any bored child would. But his eyes... they said something else. They shone like cold metal in the light, sharp with thoughts that didn't belong to a six-year-old girl.
"What a delicious irony, isn't it? The FatalPrincess, queen of armies, feared strategist, manipulator of alliances and betrayals, now trapped in the body of a spoiled little girl, fed by maids, watched over by eyes that see her as a valuable knick-knack."
She lay down, crossing her arms behind her head, with a small theatrical sigh.
"But there are no bars capable of holding my mind. They think they are creating a saint... when, in fact, they are polishing a blade."
His eyes turned to the cloud-painted ceiling.
"In the other life, I played with players. I bent kingdoms at will, I created conflicts that fed me. Here, the game is more delicate. There is no HUD, no minimap. But the pieces are still made of flesh, ego and ambition. And I know every rule, every weakness."
A slow smile formed on her childish lips.
"I'm going to learn every name, every face, every house. I'll be what they expect from me... until the moment when everyone will be on their knees. This world will be my board, and on it there will be no throne that does not bow to the FatalPrincess. No... I am no longer that failed man and not even the FatalPrincess, I am Elyandra, I will shape this place to my vision of paradise, where everything belongs to me, where fear is perfume and power, my natural right."
Lying in bed, her eyes staring at the carved stone ceiling, Elyandra began to think.
And think. And think.
"I have no right to hate them. Not yet. I'm just a piece. A beautiful thing, marked and trained to shine like a smiling puppet. But I know what you are. I see. And I remember. The game is not over just because the world has changed."
She then sat up, hugging her knees, her face plunged into dim light with a faint smile at the corner of her mouth.
"If I want to win... I need allies. I need information. I need connections. People talk, people tell secrets. People become stepping stones. And I'm going to climb through each of them, to the top."
She closed her eyes for a moment, the little smile still present, and whispered only to herself:
"I'm not just a child. I am the beginning of the end of this imperfect world. I'm Elyandra Valemortis... And you will remember me.
A step into the future, to build after destroying, to make imperfection perfection, and what is wrong becomes right.