[R]e-emerging from the depth of unconsciousness, Ionia was bathed in a gentle warmth, a tender caress guiding her back to awareness.
Behind her closed eyelids, a soft radiance cast a delicate glow. Her senses began to stir, and her body felt as if it lay upon a sumptuous, welcoming mattress.
With a reluctant grimace, Ionia's long lashes fluttered open, revealing eyes that mirrored pools of cool, distant blue. As her gaze traveled upwards, her breath hitched, her heart momentarily seizing within her bust.
It couldn't be…
An incredulous thought danced in her mind as her eyes skimmed over her surroundings.
Her bedroom. The one she had occupied within the grandeur of the Marquisate's estate.
Disbelief mingled with a creeping sense of déjà vu as she observed the familiar canopy of her four-poster bed, its opulent drapery cascading in a gentle descent, framing the plush mattress that cradled her.
The room itself bore all the hallmarks of her former abode—the intricately carved furniture, the ornate chandeliers that dangled from the ceiling, and the lavishly adorned armoire in the corner.
As her gaze wandered, she noticed the shimmering cascade of golden curtains that framed the windows. The delicate fragrance of lilies drifted in from the garden beyond, filing the room with an alluring scent.
A hint of trepidation brushed against her thoughts as she gradually sat up, her gaze roving over the tapestries adorning the walls, each a masterful work of art.
A collection of her once favored books rested on a nearby shelf, their spines immaculately aligned.
It was all here, down to the smallest detail.
Ionia scowled, the realization sinking in with each passing second. The profound oddity of the situation became inescapably clear.
She had not merely awakened in her old room; she had regressed, her timeline rewound to a period long past.
'The Vestige,' her mind whispered as her thoughts raced, echoing Sol's cryptic words.
In that surreal, mystical place, she had conversed with god and learned of her fate.
Her return to the Marquisate in its heyday seemed an impossible turn of fate and yet…
The truth weighed heavily upon her; she had, without doubt, regressed in time.
With languid grace, she slowly slid out of bed, her delicate feet making contact with the cold, uninviting floor below.
Beneath her toes, a rough carpet sprawled bearing an intricate design that might appear luxurious to the untrained eye. Yet, in the discerning gaze of an expert, it was nothing more than a gaudy symbol of projected wealth, offering no comfort whatsoever.
It was, undeniably, a telling sign of her regression, to a time when mistreatment within her father's mansion reached its zenith.
The divide between her self-contained room, housing her bed, wardrobe, vanity table, and a bed crammed into one space, contrasted starkly with her sister's lavish accommodations.
The latter enjoyed an entire floor, complete with separate rooms dedicated to dressing, personal libraries, music, and more.
Thump-! Thump-! Thump-!
Sounds of thumping footsteps resonated in the room as she finally managed to stride up to the mirror.
The sight that greeted her was nothing short of breathtaking.
Captivating azure eyes, mirroring the vast expanse of the sky, framed a face with straight obsidian hair that cascaded like a river of darkness. Her features were round and delicate, with a softly shaped nose and plump, reddish lips.
The reflection that stared back at her was undoubtedly that of a girl between the age of thirteen or fourteen.
If it weren't for her own vivid experience of rewinding time, she might have dismissed it as a mere nightmare. Unfortunately, the scars of her past experiences were too deeply etched for her to entertain such notions.
Suddenly, the door flung open, and a maid, garbed in a black robe and white apron, entered, carrying a tray bearing a basin of water and a towel. Observing the empty bed, her expression transformed into a stern frown.
"Knocking before entering someone's bedchamber is generally considered good manners," Ionia stated coldly, her voice flat and unyielding. "Even if said person is still sleeping."
The maid, taken aback by the sudden voice, jumped in startled surprise before turning her attention to Ionia.
"Young miss? You've risen?" The maid's utterance was surprisingly casual.
No apologies or concern? Moments like these only reminded Ionia's of her firm reluctance to return.
"Why would I not?" Ionia replied, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the maid. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of malicious treatment awaited her in this time.
"Do you not recall, miss? You've been unconscious for an entire week due to the injury you obtained from swordsmanship training."
At those words, a realization triggered within her. So, Sol had chosen this specific moment to send her back in time?
"Hah?" Ionia sighed wearily, rubbing her forehead as if nursing a massive headache.
She now remembered the event clearly. There was a lady at the estate well-verse in archery. Having felt a surge of arrogance, Ionia's younger self had dare challenged her to a duel since they were both vying for Draven's affection at the time.
Predictably, she had lost, sustaining an injury to her head.
This particular event had been one of the rare instances where the marquis, her father, had actually bothered to call for a healer, hoping to eliminate any life-threatening injuries or potential scarring.
Looking back, she could now grasp why he had done it—perhaps to avoid being burdened with an illegitimate daughter rendered foolish and helpless by a head injury.
"I see," Ionia muttered wearily, rubbing her eyelid.
Her frosty, empty gaze shifted to the maid as she struggled to recall the woman's name.
"Marianne, prepare a bath and my attire for the day. Ask the kitchen to bring some food. I'll head straight for the training ground afterward."
"Yes, my-lady," Marianne replied with a slight bow. She placed the tray with the basin of water on the beside table. "Please freshen up, and I'll have everything ready shortly."
As Marianne attempted to leave, Ionia's words halted her in her tracks. "Next time, dare to show disrespect without apologizing, and I'll make sure, illegitimate daughter or not, that you're never hired by a noble family again."
"M-my-lady?"
"Don't think I'm unaware that you'd rather serve my sister. That's where your disrespect stems from. But do it again, and I'll ensure you face the consequences for your actions." Ionia's frosty gaze held a hint of menacing disdain as she glared at the maid.
Marianne was taken aback, witnessing her master's unusual retaliation against her passive-aggressive behaviors. Today, Ionia appeared different—cold, aloof, and distant.
She seemed like an entirely different person.
"Yes, my lady. I will bear it in mind. My a-apologies," Marianne replied with a slight bow.
In truth, she was too frightened to meet the young lady's eyes, which seemed to possess a deadly glint. Unintentionally, a shudder coursed down her spine, and her body trembled involuntarily.
How could such a young girl exude such an intimidating aura?
"Good! Now, be gone," Ionia ordered, and Marianne hastily retreated toward the door, as if chased by unseen forces.
Ionia waited for the maid to be gone before moving to the basin of water to wash her face. The moment her hand plunged into the water; she realized it was cold.
"Tsk," she groaned to herself but proceeded to wash her face, nonetheless.
Teaching the maid, a lesson might prove to be satisfying, but at this moment, Ionia had more pressing matters to contemplate.
Her second chance at life left her feeling perplexed, purposeless, and profoundly weary.
She had no intention of embarking on a quest to change fate or alter the course of destiny. She was just too tired—exhausted by the weight of her existence.
Right now, the only activity that would offer any solace from her current state of confusion and weariness, was the simple act of swinging a wooden sword.
It would be a physical exertion that would allow her to forget the complexity of her new life, even if just for a while.
In fact, it sounded like a great idea. It would enable her to channel pent-up emotions, ease her troubled mind, and perhaps find some semblance of purpose in the rhythmic motion of a sword.
At least, until she knew what she wanted to do from henceforth.