Celestia sat on a plush velvet chair in Madame Vernisse’s elite dress boutique, arms crossed impatiently over her corseted body. The tall mirror before her reflected the twelfth gown she’d tried that morning, but her expression was one of clear dissatisfaction. “Hmph. This color makes me look bland,” she declared haughtily, lifting her chin. “Do you expect me to wear something that makes me look like a wilted lily?”

  Madame Vernisse fluttered about her anxiously, fingers full of pins and measuring tape. “N-no, Lady Celestia, of course not!” the seamstress apologized, bowing her head so deeply that her powdered wig nearly toppled.

  “Perhaps the rose-gold satin from earlier, with the altered neckline you preferred?” Two assistants were already scrambling to bring forth the next option.

  Celestia rolled her eyes. ‘Is this the best the capital’s premier tailor can do?’ she thought with an inward sigh of exasperation. In truth, none of the dresses so far had satisfied her. They were all either too demure, too frilly, or too similar to what every other noble lady would be wearing.

  The seamstress’s assistants returned bearing the rose-gold gown Celestia had tried earlier. It was a lovely piece by traditional standards: off-the-shoulder with layers of chiffon and tasteful embroidery.

  Any other young lady would swoon to wear it.

  But Celestia only had one raised brow for the offering. She allowed Madame Vernisse to slip the silken confection over her chemise and corset, then stood as the woman fussed with the laces. In the mirror, Celestia observed the dress again. The color did complement her fair skin and golden blonde hair, and the fit was adequate after adjustments.

  Still...

  She swished the skirt once and watched the layers float. Pretty, yes. Memorable? Hardly.

  Celestia pursed her lips. “It’s nice,” she said with a bland tone. That single word made Madame Vernisse’s headache grow again—nice was hardly high praise coming from the notorious Celestia.

  Before the seamstress could begin another round of frantic suggestions, Celestia lifted a hand to silence her. “Enough.” She stepped down from the fitting podium. “I think we’ve wasted enough time.” Her scarlet eyes gleamed, she had prepared something beforehand in the event that the seamstress was unable to satisfy her need for quality.

  ‘If you want something done right…’

  Celestia snapped her fingers, and one of her personal maids hurried forward with a long, flat box bound in ribbons, a parcel Celestia had brought herself. “Madame Vernisse,” Celestia announced, “I have a design of my own. I trust you would be able to execute it to perfection?” It was phrased as a question, but they both knew it was a command.

  The seamstress’s eyes widened as Celestia’s maid unveiled the contents: fine crimson fabric, sheets of parchment with sketches, and swathes of black lace. Celestia watched the woman’s face carefully.

  At first, there was confusion; this design was unlike the puffy-sleeved ballgowns currently en vogue. Then a flash of shock, the daring cut of the neckline and the scandalously high slit shown in the sketch made the older woman’s cheeks flush.

  Finally, Madam Vernisse’s face had a slow understanding and reluctant awe.

  “My Lady... this design...” Madame Vernisse murmured, fingertip tracing the drawn lines of the dress. “It’s unique and… quite bold. I’ve never seen a gown quite like this.”

  Celestia allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. “I should hope not. I drew it up specifically to ensure no one else will be wearing anything remotely similar.” She stepped closer, tapping one manicured nail on the sketch. “I want it in this deep wine red. A high slit on the left side… yes, that high, and black lace trim along the off-shoulder sleeves.”

  Madame Vernisse’s initial hesitation melted away as the artist in her took over. “It will certainly be the talk of the ball... If I can finish it by this evening—”

  “You will,” Celestia interrupted with a sharp look. “I’ll compensate you handsomely for the rush, of course.” Not that money was any object for House Reingarde. She flicked her fingers dismissively. “And make five of these gowns. I expect to have the spares delivered to my estate tomorrow.”

  Madame Vernisse curtsied deeply, eyes shining with gratitude at the windfall. “Thank you, Lady Celestia! I am honored by your patronage and your trust in my skills. I’ll personally ensure every stitch is perfect.”

  Celestia gave a slight nod. “See that you do. I do appreciate excellence, Madame. Your reputation suggested you could handle my demands. Do not disappoint me.” It was as close to a compliment as the seamstress was likely to get, and the woman beamed.

  With a clap of Madame Vernisse’s hands, she sent her assistants scurrying to gather the materials and begin drafting the unique gown immediately.

  Minutes later, Celestia emerged from the boutique’s fitting room in her day dress: a stylish but comparatively simple burgundy ensemble suitable for an outing.

  Outside, two of her maids hurried behind, arms stacked with boxes and parcels from the day’s shopping spree. Indeed, Celestia had spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon indulging in preparations for the imperial ball, not only dresses, but also new jewelry, cosmetics, shoes, gloves, and even imported silk napkins embroidered with the Reingarde rose crest.

  She’d left a trail of delighted shopkeepers in her wake, each grateful for the Duke’s daughter’s lavish patronage.

  As Celestia stepped onto the cobbled street, a cloudy late-morning sky greeted her. Her personal carriage waited for her down the block, but instead Celestia chose to walk a little through the plaza. Her maids trailed behind like ducklings carrying stacks of packages taller than themselves.

  Common townsfolk who had been going about their day had now parted ahead of Celestia’s path.

  Conversations hushed to whispers. Commoners managed quick bows or curtsies, then found excuses to scurry away or duck into doorways to avoid drawing attention to themselves. “It’s Lady Celestia,” one woman murmured to a companion as they pressed back against a fruit stand to let her pass. “Don’t look at her eyes!” hissed the other to her child, as if Celestia were some predatory beast that might strike if provoked.

  Celestia noticed it all. The way the ordinary folk avoided her gaze and trembled in her presence was as familiar as it was frustrating.

  It was her own fault, in a way. Or rather, the fault of the original Celestia whose life she was now living. This heiress had earned a fearsome reputation over the years: arrogant, cold-hearted, quick to punish any slight. A villainess in every sense.

  Celestia had done little to dispel that image since transmigrating.

  Despite the current atmosphere the townsfolk gave, Celestia took the opportunity to survey the state of affairs in Reingarde territory. She had spent so much time cooped up in the Duke’s estate that she hadn’t thought of going outside of it yet.

  Here in the capital of the duchy, business seemed to be thriving. Market stalls overflowed with produce and wares; merchants hawked spices and textiles from distant lands; children darted through the crowds playing. On the surface, it was a picture of prosperity under House Reingarde’s rule.

  However, Celestia’s keen eyes also caught sight of the less rosy scenes present in the city. Down a narrow alley between a bakery and a shoe shop, a pair of haggard-faced children sat on the stones, their palms outstretched to passersby.

  Another beggar, an elderly man in tattered clothes, leaned against a wall nearby, his eyes dull with fatigue and hunger. The surrounding townsfolk walked past these pitiable figures without so much as a glance.

  Celestia slowed her steps for a moment as she neared the alley. The younger of the two children, a girl with matted dark hair, looked up at Celestia in awe. The child’s eyes looked large on her thin face, and for a split second, Celestia saw something like hope in there.

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  To the poor of the duchy, even a villainous duke’s daughter was still nobility. Celestia felt an uncomfortable twinge in her chest.

  Pity? Guilt? She swiftly smothered it.

  Her maid, Martha, noticed her pause and followed her gaze nervously. “Shall I shoo them off, My Lady?” Martha whispered, misreading Celestia’s expression as anger.

  Celestia blinked and realized she’d been staring at the little beggar girl. The child, sensing scrutiny, quickly cast her eyes down and shrank back, as if expecting a scolding or worse.

  ‘What am I doing?’ Celestia chastised herself and flicked open her fan with a snap, covering the lower half of her face. “That won’t be necessary, let us continue.”

  As they resumed walking, Celestia tapped her fan lightly against her palm. “Martha,” she said without looking at her, “establish a feeding program. Daily morning bread and soup, evening porridge, enough to keep those alleyway rats from dying where everyone can see them.”

  Martha nearly stumbled. “Y-your Ladyship?”

  Celestia clicked her tongue. “Do not make me repeat myself. For the reputation of House Reingarde. I refuse this duchy to look like a starving wasteland.” She flicked her fan shut with a snap. “Make sure those who have not eaten yet have their turns first.”

  “Yes, My Lady!” Martha replied, bowing quickly.

  They continued on, turning a corner onto a broad avenue. At the far end loomed a grand stone cathedral, its stained-glass windows catching the day’s light. A small crowd had gathered outside its steps, listening to the fervent words of a priest. Celestia didn’t need to get closer to recognize what was happening: proselytizing. Over the past three years or so, a new religion had been spreading its roots through the Empire, and it seemed this city was no exception.

  Clad in humble white robes, the priest raised his hands as he preached about salvation and faith to the onlookers.

  Celestia’s red eyes narrowed. She only managed to read about this particular faith when she had done her research in the library; worshippers of some deity of light, if she remembered correctly, had sprung up two years after the Tower appeared.

  In the timeline of the story, however, she didn’t remember anything about this religion.

  ‘Maybe they die out or become irrelevant later.’ Celestia mentally shrugged.

  One of the nuns caught sight of Celestia’s luxurious figure as she passed and her eyes lit up with hope, perhaps mistaking Celestia’s idle glance for interest. “My Lady!” the nun called, stepping forward with a pamphlet and an eager smile. “Might you spare a moment to hear the gospel of the New Light—”

  Celestia didn’t even break stride. She delivered the woman a withering side-eye, the kind that could freeze a summer lake, and snapped her now-open fan shut with a crack. The nun faltered mid-speech, retreating a step. “I-I see... perhaps another time,” she mumbled as Celestia walked past without a word.

  The gathered commoners watched the exchange in wary silence. Some made the sign of their faith as if warding off evil when the Duke’s daughter passed, while others simply looked away.

  The notorious villainess wanted nothing to do with their saintly talk, and that was that.

  Soon, Celestia reached her carriage. Her coachman quickly hopped down and opened the door for her, bowing. “Milady,” he murmured. Celestia allowed her maids to carefully stow the mountain of purchased boxes in the back, then she ascended the step and settled into the cushioned interior.

  Within moments, the Reingarde carriage rattled off through the streets back toward the ducal estate.

  As the town center faded behind her, Celestia finally let out a small sigh and relaxed marginally against the upholstered seat.

  She gazed out the window at the passing scenery of her duchy’s capital. The bustling main avenues gave way to quieter, tree-lined streets as they neared the noble district. Her thoughts drifted to what awaited tomorrow night: the imperial ball.

  It was to be the grandest event of the year, hosted at the Imperial Palace itself. Nobles from all corners of the Empire would attend, including, of course, her illustrious fiancé, the Crown Prince.

  At the thought of him, Celestia’s eyes narrowed.

  That evening, back at Reingarde Estate, Celestia planted herself in her personal study. She had changed into a comfortable burgundy house gown and dismissed her ladies-in-waiting for the night, preferring solitude for what she intended to do.

  At her mahogany desk lay a spread of old leather-bound tomes and withered books. Celestia pulled one hefty volume closer, its spine embossed with the Reingarde rose-and-dragon crest. Gold letters spelled out: “Annals of the Reingarde House - Volume I.”

  Centuries ago, when the Empire was just a fledgling kingdom beset by enemies, famine, and betrayal, it was the first Duke Reingarde who stood steadfast at the side of the one who would become the First Emperor, or rather, the First Empress.

  The Empire owed its origins to a queen, a powerful warrior whom history remembered as the Silver Dragon Empress, named for her banner bearing a silver dragon.

  The book recounted how the young lord Reingarde back then swore loyalty to the Empress when others abandoned her. He provided her fledgling empire food from his own lands during the great famine, bolstered her armies in war, and shielded her from assassins during the darkest days of allied betrayal.

  Through every hardship, the Reingarde patriarch had been stalwart and loyal. His unwavering service was rewarded richly when the war ended and the Empress sat upon the imperial throne.

  House Reingarde was elevated to the highest rank of nobility, granted authority second only to the imperial family, and gifted vast lands to govern in the new Empire.

  House Reingarde had been literally foundational to the Empire.

  Celestia turned the page and found a hand-painted illustration of the first Duke kneeling before the crowned Empress. Beside the Empress’s figure coiled the stylized silver dragon of the imperial crest. In the Duke’s outstretched hand was a single red rose he offered to his liege.

  Her eyes drifted to the explanation beneath the image.

  It read: “In token of unwavering devotion, Lord Reingarde presented Her Majesty a red rose each day until she accepted his pledge of fealty and eventually, his love.”

  Celestia blinked. “His love?” she echoed aloud, surprise coloring her voice. Skimming further, she realized with astonishment that the first Duke Reingarde had courted the Empress. The man had apparently fallen deeply in love with his sovereign.

  And after many attempts, rose after rose offered at her feet, the hardened warrior-Empress at last reciprocated his feelings. The rose became their symbol of affection. Though their advisors forbade marriage, she honored him in another way. She decreed that the Reingarde family crest bear the image of the imperial silver dragon intertwined with a red rose. It was an emblem of trust, love, and the bond between their houses.

  Celestia closed the book slowly, her mind buzzing with this romantic tidbit.

  It struck her that were historical details the original novel hadn’t explicitly mentioned.

  But here it was: a tradition of romance embedded in Reingarde’s lineage. Celestia gave a small, incredulous laugh. “Simply said, every Reingarde head has been a known romantic,” she recited the words she’d read earlier in another book. It appeared that from the first Duke onward, the lords of Reingarde often followed their hearts with dramatic flair, grand gestures, and passionate pursuits. Her own father, the current Duke, had famously dueled three suitors to win her mother's hand, if gossip held true.

  It seemed romance was practically a familial trait.

  Her laughter died as her thoughts turned to the current next head of Reingarde: herself, Celestia. Or rather, the girl whose life she’d been dropped into. The original Celestia had certainly lived up to that romantic legacy. Celestia picked up another book; a more personal record, the diary of her late grandfather.

  He had written proudly of his granddaughter’s childhood, as if she were destined for greatness. One passage caught her eye:

  —“Little Celestia, barely eight, boldly proclaimed she would marry Prince Damon someday. A child’s fancy it may have been, but our family’s privilege, the First Right of Marriage, could make it so. I advised my son to consider it if her feelings remained true.”

  Celestia snapped the diary shut with a grimace. First Right of Marriage. Yes, she’d read of that too, a special privilege granted to House Reingarde by the Empress. In gratitude for their service, the imperial family allowed that the Reingarde heir could, once per generation, put forth a marriage proposal to the imperial family. That proposal would be considered first, before any other noble house, and it would be given utmost favor.

  Essentially, it was a free pass to arrange a marriage into the imperial throne if both sides agreed.

  And apparently, the starry-eyed original Celestia had invoked that right by begging Daddy Dearest to betroth her to the Crown Prince when they were still children. That little fool had cried and pleaded until the Duke and even the Emperor himself indulged her whim. Thus, the engagement was set: Duke Reingarde’s only daughter, promised to the heir of the Empire. A union of political titans forged... over a childhood crush.

  Celestia rubbed her temples in disbelief. The audacity of that girl! Because of one naive fancy, she now found herself shackled to a man.

  Marvelous.

  She almost wished she could scold the younger Celestia. You begged for a prince, and now I’m the one stuck with him.

  Celestia stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the estate. Her own reflection faintly gazed back, red eyes gleaming with determination. “You think this is my first rodeo?” she muttered under her breath, “I’m no beginner in these marital affairs.”

  A pathetic antagonist hopelessly chasing a man who never truly loved her, eventually cast aside in disgrace. That was not going to happen on her watch. If anything, she might be the one doing the casting aside this time.

  The imperial Ball tomorrow would be her first formal appearance with the prince. It was the perfect stage to begin changing her fate. A slow, almost wicked smile curved her lips.

  Celestia blew out the candles in her study. She needed rest; tomorrow would be a very long day.

  Chapter 3: "Fit for a Villainess"