Aira awoke with a pounding headache, her body aching in ways she had never known before. Her limbs felt weak, her skin rough, her stomach gnawing with hunger. The cold morning air bit at her exposed arms as she pushed herself up from the thin, scratchy blanket that barely covered the hay-stuffed mattress beneath her.
She was inside a tiny, cramped wooden shack, surrounded by seven other sleeping bodies. The stench of sweat and dirt clung to the air, and as she shifted, she felt something damp beneath her foot.
"Is that... animal poop?"
Aira recoiled in disgust, her face twisting in horror. A wave of nausea rolled through her as she tried to wipe the filth off her foot onto the already-dirty floor. Her breath came in short gasps, her mind struggling to grasp the reality before her.
This isn't a dream. This is real.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake up back in her tiny apartment, back in front of her computer screen, where the only discomfort was the cramp in her wrist from writing too much. But when she opened her eyes, the filth was still there, the rough blanket was still scratchy against her skin, and the scent of manure still clogged her nose.
Denial
At first, she refused to accept it. She tried to convince herself that this was some kind of hallucination, a vivid dream brought on by stress. She had read about lucid dreaming—maybe if she concentrated hard enough, she could break free. Maybe she could will herself to wake up in her real world.
She stumbled out of the cramped bed, nearly tripping over the tiny legs of her younger siblings. In her haste, she bumped into the wooden wall, feeling the coarse texture of the poorly built structure against her palms. A low groan of annoyance came from her eldest brother, Toren, who turned over but did not wake.
Aira ran to the only small mirror in the house—a cracked, foggy thing hanging near the door. Her hands trembled as she reached up to touch her face, hoping to see the sharp features of the woman she once was.
But what stared back at her was the face of a young girl, no older than thirteen. Her skin was sun-kissed, tanned from hours of labor in the fields. Her hair was a tangled mess of dark brown, cut unevenly and unkempt. Her once-sleek and polished nails were now chipped and caked with dirt. Her once-soft hands had callouses, hardened from toil.
"No... this isn't real," she whispered. "This isn't me. This can't be me."
Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the cold, dirt floor. Her breathing quickened, panic gripping her chest like a vice. She clawed at her hair, desperate to rip away the illusion, to wake up.
But she didn't wake up.
And then, the memories came.
Realization
Like a floodgate bursting open, images, names, and places all came rushing into her mind.
Seraphis.
The Kingdom of Seraphis.
A world she had created.
She saw the maps she had painstakingly drawn, the political structures she had woven, the noble families she had built from the ground up. She saw the heroes and villains, the wars and betrayals, the magic that governed the land. And among those memories, she saw Aira, a minor, nameless peasant girl who had never once appeared in her stories.
Because Aira was a nobody.
She was just an extra, a commoner whose existence meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.
"Why?" she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why am I... her?"
In every novel she had ever written, the protagonist was always reborn as someone important. A princess. A noble lady. A powerful sorceress. They had beautiful, radiant hair, flawless skin, and the admiration of every handsome man they encountered. They were adored, cherished, special.
But her?
She had nothing. No beauty. No riches. No title. No power.
Only dirt, hunger, and exhaustion.
"This... This isn't fair," she whispered. "This isn't how it's supposed to be."
But fairness had nothing to do with it.
She wasn't special. She wasn't chosen.
She was just Aira, a dirt-poor farmer's daughter in the middle of nowhere.
Acceptance
The first week was the hardest. She refused to work, refused to eat, refused to acknowledge her new reality. She spent hours staring at her reflection, willing it to change, willing herself to wake up from this nightmare.
But hunger was relentless. Her body, weak and undernourished, could not afford to refuse food. By the third day, her mother, Mira, had grown tired of her strange behavior and forced her to eat a bowl of watery porridge. It was bland, barely seasoned, but it was enough to keep her stomach from gnawing at itself.
By the end of the first week, reality set in.
She had no choice. She had to survive.
And survival meant work.
She was woken up before dawn to fetch water from the well, clean the animal pens, help in preparing breakfast, and tend to the fields. Her muscles burned, her fingers blistered, and her legs ached from exhaustion. The food was terrible—barely seasoned, coarse, and unappetizing.
At night, she was crammed into a tiny bed with her younger siblings, all of them squirming, kicking, and snoring in their sleep. There was no privacy, no comfort, no moment to rest.
She longed for the simple luxuries she had once taken for granted—a hot bath, soft sheets, a quiet room to herself. But those things were gone. And they weren't coming back.
Her family consisted of:
Mira (Mother) – A tired but kind woman who worked endlessly to keep the family fed.Garet (Father) – A strict but hardworking man who rarely spoke but provided for them.Toren (15) – The eldest brother, gruff and distant, working alongside their father.Elsie (14) – The eldest sister, patient but exhausted, handling most household chores.Ronan (11) – The mischievous one, constantly trying to escape work.Marla (9) – Sweet but sickly, too frail to contribute much.Joren (7) – Clingy and energetic, always following Aira around.Lana & Lira (5) – The chaotic twins, loud and demanding.
Aira groaned as reality sank in.
Instead of being pampered by maids, she had to scrub floors, cook, and clean filth. Instead of enjoying banquets, she had to eat tasteless gruel. Instead of having charming suitors vying for her love, she had to chase after screaming children.
And worst of all? She was starting to hate children.
Her fingers curled into fists as she stared at the endless fields of wheat and the pile of manure waiting to be shovelled.
"Whichever god reincarnated me as a poor commoner farmer girl," she muttered under her breath, "I am going to kill that god."