The pain was excruciating. A sharp, relentless throb pounded through Ivy's skull, and the incessant ringing in her ears refused to fade. Wasn't death supposed to be painless? If so, then why did she feel like her head was about to split open?
"Oh my gosh, did she really push Lady Irene off the second floor and then jump after her?" A distant female voice spoke in disbelief.
Was this what happened after death? Did the gods gather to gossip about the departed? If so, Ivy wondered what they would say about her. Probably something about karma. After all, what could be a better example of karma than an assassin being assassinated? The irony of it all was almost laughable.
"It's fortunate that Sir Maxwell was there to catch Lady Irene. I can't even begin to imagine what would have happened to the poor girl," another voice added, thick with relief.
Wait… what?
Lady Irene survived? Then why were they still talking about her? Were the gods that bored?
"So, what will happen to Lady Ivy?" a timid voice asked hesitantly.
"Who cares? That vile woman is lucky enough to have survived that fall," scoffed the first voice, her words dripping with contempt.
The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable. Whoever this Lady Ivy was, she wasn't just disliked—she was hated.
Something wasn't right. If both Irene and Ivy were still alive, then what was happening?
Just as confusion settled deep in her bones, the ringing in her ears intensified, and suddenly, memories that did not belong to her came flooding in—memories of a young noblewoman named Lady Ivy Ravenshield.
Lady Ivy.
The youngest and only daughter of Count Ravenshield, Ivy was born into a prestigious noble house renowned for its combat magic. The Ravenshields had built a legacy on their extraordinary battle skills, producing some of the most formidable knights in the kingdom. Male or female, it did not matter—if one bore the Ravenshield name, they were destined for greatness.
But Ivy was different.
She was the first Ravenshield to be born without a single trace of magic. To make matters worse, her mother had died giving birth to her. To Count Ravenshield, that was an unforgivable sin.
He blamed her for his beloved wife's death, for staining the family's legacy with weakness. He never looked at Ivy with anything but cold indifference, never spoke to her with affection, never regarded her as his daughter.
Her three elder brothers were no different. Only the eldest had ever shown her kindness, but he was a knight always away at war, rarely home. The other two? They made sure Ivy never forgot that she was unwanted, that she was nothing but a disgrace, a burden, the reason their mother was gone.
Then there was Lady Irene.
The beloved daughter of Count Ravenshield's second wife, Lady Victoria Vitae. A woman who was also the cousin of Ivy's late mother, Lady Crystal Vitae.
A widow before her marriage to the Count, Victoria had been encouraged by House Vitae to become the Count's wife, ensuring both she and her daughter would be well cared for. And so, she did.
But unlike Ivy, Irene possessed magic.
She had inherited the Vitae family's renowned healing abilities—an exceptional gift that allowed her to cure blood-related ailments, such as poisonings or diseases like anemia.
And for that, Count Ravenshield adored her.
More than Ivy.
More than his own flesh and blood.
Where Ivy was shunned, Irene was cherished. Where Ivy was resented, Irene was celebrated. The difference between them was night and day, and resentment festered like a slow-growing poison.
And now, Ivy was being accused of pushing Irene off a balcony.
"I heard the prince is still going through with the wedding," one of the voices murmured.
The wedding.
Oh, that's right. Ivy was engaged to the Crown Prince.
The same Crown Prince who was in love with Irene.
And the worst part? He had never even tried to hide it.
The truth was simple—Irene had jumped, and she had pulled Ivy down with her. But who would believe that? Sweet, fragile, delicate Irene? No, everyone would much rather believe that cold, cruel Ivy had done it.
That was what Irene had counted on.
And it had worked.
But the real question now was—why was Ivy still alive?
A harsh, blinding light seared through Ivy's closed eyelids, forcing them open. The brightness was unbearable, making her regret even trying.
For a moment, she wondered if she had actually made it to heaven.
But as her vision adjusted, the luxurious surroundings of the room she was in became clearer.
It was a chamber fit for nobility—grand, elegant, and drowning in wealth. The walls were draped in elaborate tapestries depicting various flowers, a magnificent stone fireplace crackled warmly nearby, and a mahogany writing desk stood near a tall window, its surface scattered with quills, parchment, and an ornate inkwell.
Above her, a chandelier of cascading crystals hung like frozen icicles, its shimmering glow reflecting off the polished marble floor. Floor-length silk curtains, dyed in rich hues of midnight blue and silver, framed the windows.
Everything about this place exuded opulence.
And the only thought running through Ivy's mind was: "What the hell am I doing here?"
"She's awake! Someone, call the physician!"
A startled voice broke through the haze of her thoughts.
Turning her head slightly, Ivy's gaze fell upon a group of young women standing at her bedside. Three were elegantly dressed in silk gowns, while the others wore the uniforms of housemaids. Though she was certain she had never seen their faces before, something deep inside told her exactly who they were.
These were Ivy's so-called friends.
And it was a tragedy that she had ever considered them as such.
"Lady Ivy, how are you feeling? Anya has gone to fetch the physician," spoke Lady Isabeau Emberheart, heir to House Emberheart, a family of formidable fire mages. Her voice was the first Ivy had heard while unconscious.
Beside her stood Lady Isolde Ravenscroft, from House Ravenscroft, renowned for their mastery of weather magic. And then there was Lady Lysandra Moonfire, a timid young woman from a long line of healers.
"… Are you feeling alright?" Lysandra asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Wait.
She was speaking to "her", wasn't she?
Then, all at once, a final memory surged forward, vivid and suffocating.
The last thing Ivy had seen before she fell.
Irene and Sir Maxwell—one of the Ravenshield knights— stood above her, watching as she plummeted. Laughing.
With the last of her strength, she had reached out, desperate, pleading for help.
But they had only stared.
And then, Irene had whispered, voice full of quiet triumph—"This house will be so much better without you in it."
Then, darkness.
Nothingness.
And now… she was here.
Alive.
With a different Ivy possessing her body.