The air smelled wrong. Too clean. No damp leaves, no soil, no manure—none of the earthy perfume I trusted to mean life.

Instead, the sharp scent of polish and closed rooms.

I opened my eyes, expecting rough canvas or a cave ceiling. Instead: carved wood. An ornate canopy. The kind of bed someone rich and profoundly miserable would toss in.

I sat up with practiced care, scanning my surroundings the way I had in countless unfamiliar villages. Opulent, yes. Outdated, definitely. If Buckingham Palace had been designed by someone with no taste for restraint, it might look like this.

And my body—

I stilled.

It felt good. Too good. No aching back. No sand-fly bites. Not even the tight pull of sunburn.

I glanced at my arm. Smooth. Pale. Elegant fingers that looked like they’d never held a trowel in their pampered lives.

Not my arm.

A thick curl of vivid green hair slid into my lap. I picked it up between my fingers. Voluminous. Glossy. Naturally green. Eyebrows matched. Even the arm hair.

Wonderful. I’d been reincarnated into a luxury bottle of chlorophyll.

A knock. The door opened before I could answer.

“My lady.”

The voice was calm, even-toned. A girl entered with a tray, uniform crisp and black-and-white. Her expression could have been carved from marble.

“You fainted during weapons review yesterday,” she said. “The physician ordered rest. The ceremony is the day after tomorrow. You’ll need to recover by then.”

Weapons? Ceremony? What was she talking about?

“Mirror,” I requested. My voice came out steady, noble. It startled me more than her.

She—Vesa, my brain supplied without permission—handed one over.

“Vesa?” I tested.

“Yes, my lady.” Not a flicker.

So. That was her name. How I knew it was another matter. A transmigration perk? I’d think about it later.

The mirror nearly slipped from my hands.

A young girl stared back—round face, huge jade-green eyes, features so fine they looked airbrushed. My old self had been… realer. Weathered. Brown scraggly hair cropped short, skin tanned and scarred from years chasing plants. This one was silk, gloss, and soft light.

Definitely not me.

I sighed. If I’d known this sort of thing was on the table, maybe I should have studied reincarnation instead of plants.

…As if. Who would abandon thousand-year-old tree stumps, rainbow fungi, and carnivorous orchids for immortality theory?

I shifted my gaze to Vesa, who stood like a trained statue, eyes half-lidded, tray balanced with machine precision.

“Where exactly am I?”

Her brow ticked, barely perceptible. “The Dorian estate. West wing.”

The name landed heavy. A flicker of memory jarred loose.

A cold male voice in a hallway: “Once she’s gone to that march, she’s no longer our concern. Dead weight. No value to the family.”

Lovely. I was the disappointing daughter. Genre bingo was practically full already. All I needed was a dead mother and a cruel father.

I stood. No dizziness, no weakness. This body was strong, balanced, posture unnervingly perfect. Like someone had wired a ruler to my spine.

“Is my family in today?” I asked, feigning nonchalance.

“The young masters are training. Lady Isolde is in the solarium. Your father is… occupied.”

So the mother lived. Lucky Jeanne. Wait—Jeanne? Was that me? The name tugged at the back of my mind like a loose thread.

Vesa laid out clothes with methodical grace. Her movements were efficient, but her eyes—sharp. She was watching me closely.

I picked up the brush from the vanity, running it through my hair. Her gaze tightened. Ah. So I didn’t usually do this myself.

I passed it back smoothly, as if it had been my plan all along. No need to show my hand too soon.

A week until some kind of ceremony. A march, perhaps. And this family clearly couldn’t wait to be rid of me.

Vesa draped a damp towel over my arm, as silent and perfect as ever. She wasn’t your average maid. More knife than cloth, that one.

I wiped my face, squared my shoulders. This body was springy, healthy. Noble-born, yes, but with a whisper of lean muscle beneath. Strange, but useful.

“Yes,” I murmured, meeting my own reflection once more. “I can work with this.”

And then, louder, brisk: “All right, let’s get this over with.”