"My Lady," came a voice through the door, clear and practiced. "Professor Rothwell demands your attendance. He said to remind you—he will not be so forgiving should expulsion become warranted."
The words hung in the air, heavy with expectation. Through the fog of her mind, she could picture the maid beyond the door—spine straight, head slightly bowed, hands clasped at her waist, waiting for her orders. Someone accustomed to silence.
She blinked into the morning light, disoriented. Her head pounded—slow and heavy, like a war drum echoing through an empty valley. When she opened her eyes, she immediately wanted to shut them again. The plain white ceiling made her want to tear the paint off, scratch it, stain it with something—anything. An eyesore: flat, dull, lifeless. The pristine surface seemed to mock her confusion with its orderly blankness.
Outside, birds chirped in cheerful ignorance of her distress. A gentle breeze carried the scent of morning dew and distant gardens through the window—familiar yet alien.
She blinked, and then another blink.
She sat upright. Her breath caught mid-chest, trapped between inhale and exhale.
Where…?
Where am I?
Her heart thudded against her ribs as she glanced around, panic rising like floodwater. The room was unfamiliar—elegant, pristine, untouched—as if she were the first intruder in a carefully preserved museum. A four-poster bed enclosed her in silk drapes, the fabric shimmering with subtle patterns that caught the light. A tall wardrobe of dark, polished wood stood in the corner, its surface carved with intricate vines and phoenixes that seemed to move when she shifted her gaze. A window, slightly ajar, let in mist and birdsong, the glass panes filtering the sunlight into soft, golden beams that illuminated dust motes dancing in the air.
A writing desk sat beneath the window, papers stacked neatly beside an inkwell and several quills. A bookshelf lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes whose titles she couldn't make out from the bed. Everything spoke of wealth, privilege, and a life she didn't recognize.
She grasped for memories—found nothing, not even a glimpse. It was like a first time for her, like how a toddler would gain consciousness of the world.
"You there," she called, voice rasping from disuse, her throat dry as parchment. "I demand an explanation." The words came out with more authority than she felt, a reflex she didn't recognize.
"My Lady had another late night of study, thus the disorientation. The headaches are to be expected."
"Truly?" Her voice carried suspicion. Her fingers clutched at the silken sheets.
"I do not know, My Lady," came the calm reply. "It was your own instruction—that I should offer such an explanation, should you ever ask." She answered as if she were used to her questions, as if this moment had played out countless times before.
"...What?" The word came unbidden, weak and vulnerable in a way that felt wrong on her tongue. She shouldn’t be seen as weak.
Slowly, she shifted aside the covers, the fabric whispering against her skin. Her sleeping robes shimmered faintly in the light—deep blue silk embroidered with a crest at the collar: a raven in flight, its wings inked with stars, circling a tower haloed by a crescent moon. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each thread placed with precision, the symbol clearly one of significance. Around her neck hung a translucent blue crystal pendant, cool against her skin despite having rested there all night. It pulsed faintly with her heartbeat, though she couldn't tell if that was real or imagined.
In the corner, a tall mirror with an ornate silver frame reflected her face: her dark, flowing hair cascading past her shoulders in waves, her fair skin with a hint of pallor, hollow cheeks, and tired, baggy eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. A face both familiar and foreign—like a portrait she'd studied rather than her own reflection.
She looked more of a witch than a noble girl.
"Who are you?" she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else, studying the stranger in the mirror.
Her gaze then fell upon an object atop the writing desk—a book that seemed to draw her attention like a beacon. Leather-bound and worn at the edges, it featured a violet ribbon bookmark protruding from its pages. Boldly scrawled across its front in a handwriting that sparked no recognition were the words, "IF MEMORY FAILS, READ THIS."
"Colette, My Lady," the maid interjected softly from beyond the door, misunderstanding her question. "Your personal maid these past three years."
She narrowed her eyes, then slowly pushed back the covers completely and stood. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she crossed to the desk, her steps slow and steady as she navigated a room that should have felt like home, but didn't. The handwriting on the book felt familiar, though she couldn't place it—perhaps her own? She reached for the book and flipped to the first page.
I am Lady Eliana of House Ravencrest. And you are Lady Eliana of House Ravencrest.
We are the same person.
The breath she hadn't realized she was holding escaped her lips in a soft gasp. Her fingers traced the words, feeling the indentations, a light press of a pen.
If you're reading this, you've suffered another mana collapse. You will remember nothing—nor will you ever recover said memories. Collapse always occurs during sleep, when mana becomes too unstable. Our condition cannot be cured, only endured. Stabilization is impossible without collapse. We can never prevent it—only increase the days of memory retention.
It is unique to us, as I haven't found any records for such an affliction.
Her eyes raced over the next lines with growing disbelief. She didn't like the implications, the certainty of each word. The pit in her stomach deepened with each sentence.
For clarity, we assign ourselves numbers. I am Third—the third iteration of ourself. There may have been others before me, but I’ve grouped them all under Second. First is our progenitor, the foundation of our personality and capabilities. Add one to the last journal in the pile, and that number will be yours. I recommend reviewing the final entries immediately—at least the last week’s worth.
Eliana glanced toward the nightstand. A small stack of matching journals sat neatly in a wooden tray, each labeled with a number in the same handwriting. She reached out and pulled one out. The top was labeled "7th." That makes her 8th.
She flipped through the pages, seeing entries dated consistently until they simply stopped. The handwriting matched the book in her hands.
There were no journals for First and Second.
This guidebook contains everything you need to know—about yourself, and your condition. The Rules section is of utmost importance. READ IT BEFORE LEAVING YOUR ROOM. We must not bring shame to our House, so I expect you to follow them dutifully. I've organized the contents by priority. Follow them precisely.
(I've revised some rules, as the old ones no longer apply. I urge you to do the same. —4th)
As she was about to turn the page, her maid's voice broke through the silence again, more insistent this time.
"My Lady?" Colette ventured, a note of genuine concern threading through her professional demeanor. "I do not wish to be presumptuous—but I must insist we make haste. You are already two hours late. Any later, and Professor Rothwell may well follow through with expulsion. The Academy does not look kindly upon repeated tardiness, especially from one of your station."
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The name Rothwell sparked nothing—no recognition, no emotion beyond the instinctive dislike one might have for an authority figure threatening punishment. Academy. Her station. Words that had context, importance.
Eliana's frown deepened. The book had underlined the necessity of this next part—the rules section. She could feel it in her bones—this was the page that mattered. But the weight of the expulsion pressed against her. Duty, reputation, and consequences she couldn't even remember why she should be concerned about.
With a reluctant sigh, she closed the book. Fine. She would read the rules later. She had to. Getting expelled would only complicate whatever mess this already was. She needed time and space to understand, and neither seemed forthcoming if she didn't attend to this immediate demand.
"Why are you not assisting?" she snapped, irritation flaring. "Am I expected to dress myself?"
"Does My Lady grant me permission to enter?" came the measured reply, not a hint of offense at her tone.
Eliana frowned, fingers tightening around the book. "Why should you require permission?" The question would reveal her ignorance, but she couldn't help her curiosity.
"Was it not My Lady's command," Colette asked calmly, "that I shall not enter your room except upon permission—or in the event of an accident?"
Eliana's brows drew together in disbelief. The absurdity perplexed her. She would never have given such an order—at least, she didn't think she would. Then her eyes fell on the book again, realizing something.
What if it was meant to hide her affliction—Colette had made no mention of her memory loss or collapse. Was her affliction not known? Should it not be known?
With an annoyed sigh, Eliana slipped the book into her satchel, which hung from a hook beside the wardrobe. The leather was worn in places that suggested frequent use, the strap adjusted to a length that felt right when she tested it against her shoulder.
"You may enter," she said at last.
The door opened smoothly, revealing a young woman in a simple gray dress with white trim—neat, proper, and unremarkable. Colette had mousy brown hair pulled back in a severe bun, revealing a face that was plain but kind. Her eyes, though, were sharp and observant, taking in Eliana's disheveled state with a practiced glance that revealed nothing of her thoughts.
"Your uniform is pressed and ready, My Lady," she said, moving to the wardrobe with efficient steps. "I've laid out your books for today's lectures as well."
Eliana watched as Colette selected garments from the wardrobe—a white blouse with lace at the collar, a deep blue jacket with silver buttons bearing the same raven crest from her sleeping robe, and a matching skirt that fell to mid-calf. The uniform looked restrictive, formal, and entirely unfamiliar.
"How long have I been attending this Academy?" Eliana asked, trying to sound casual as she allowed Colette to help her dress.
"This is your third year, My Lady," Colette replied without hesitation, her fingers working quickly with the buttons. "You excel in theoretical studies but struggle with practical applications. Professor Rothwell's class, in particular, has been... challenging."
Eliana absorbed this information, filing it away. "And what exactly does Professor Rothwell teach?"
If Colette found the question strange, she didn't show it. "Advanced Mana Manipulation and Control. The cornerstone of fourth-year study." Her hands paused briefly at Eliana's collar. "You were once his most promising student."
Once. The implication hung between them.
As Colette finished with the uniform, Eliana caught sight of herself in the mirror again. The transformation was striking—the disheveled girl replaced by a poised young woman of obvious breeding and status. The uniform suited her, as if designed specifically for her form. The crystal pendant now lay outside her clothing, glowing faintly against the dark fabric of her jacket.
"Your satchel, My Lady," Colette said, handing her the leather bag, now filled with several books and notebooks. "The schedule is in the front pocket."
Eliana simply took it.
"Will that be all, My Lady?"
"Yes, that will be all."
Colette curtseyed and made to leave.
"Wait," Eliana called after her, and hesitated. "How do I reach Professor Rothwell's classroom from here?"
This time, Colette's pause was noticeable. "I believe it’s in your book, My Lady, the one you wrote anything of importance on." Her eyes flicked meaningfully to the satchel.
"Of course," Eliana said smoothly, hiding her slip up.
Colette's expression softened slightly. "Of course, My Lady. Good luck with your studies today."
With that, she was gone, leaving Eliana alone with her thoughts.
As instructed, the book gave directions—from the moment she exited her chambers to the final corridor leading to her first class. The Academy was a labyrinth of hallways, courtyards, and staircases that wound through an ancient stone building. Stained glass windows cast colored light across the floors, depicting scenes of what she assumed were famous mages and historic moments. Students in uniforms identical to hers moved through the hallways like schools of fish, some nodding respectfully as she passed, others deliberately avoiding her gaze.
She could have asked Colette to accompany her as a guide, but Colette had already left before she could ask. Then again, she wasn't even sure if that was necessarily a bad thing. As far as she could see, none brought their personal attendant with them. Would anyone believe her if she told them she woke up with no memory of who she was? Would they help her, or would they use it against her? She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t read the explanation yet.
A voice droned on behind the door—dense, clipped, lecturing. The door felt heavier than it should as she pushed it open, the wood resisting as if warning her away.
Silence fell. Dozens of heads turned.
At the front of the room, standing at the podium, a man with white hair, a monocle, and a sharp, hawk-like chin narrowed his eyes. Professor Rothwell, she presumed. His robes were midnight blue, trimmed with silver that matched his hair. A silver cane leaned against the podium, its handle carved into the shape of a serpent. Eliana had already made her decision—she didn't like the professor. His scowl was cold enough to freeze ink, and aimed directly at her.
"You're late," he said, the words precise and cutting.
Eliana stepped inside, scanning for her desk. The stares prickled at her skin, like needles pressing from all directions. The classroom was large and circular, with tiered seating that rose toward the back. A massive circular diagram was etched into the board, filled with symbols she didn't recognize but somehow understood. It was related to mana distribution.
"My sincerest apologies, Professor Rothwell. I was studying far too late into the night. It shall not happen again." The words came smoothly, practiced, as if she'd said them many times before. Perhaps she had.
"A phrase I've heard far too many times," he snapped—his voice far too loud for her headache. "This time, I will be marking it. No further excuses. Do I make myself clear?"
Soft snickers rippled through the room, the sound of schadenfreude—pleasure derived from another's misfortune. The reaction suggested her standing among her peers was not high.
Crack.
The professor struck the leg of the table with his cane. The laughter died instantly, cut off as if by a blade. The sound resonated through Eliana's skull, amplifying her headache.
"With how loud it rings in my ears," she muttered, unable to stop herself, "clearly I heard enough."
"Doubtful," he said dryly, "but I'll allow it—since I see no point wasting words on ears that let them pass through."
He turned with a huff, his robes swirling dramatically around his ankles. "Take your seat, Lady Eliana. I've long since tired of your impertinence."
"Thank you." She turned and moved between the rows of desks.
Dozens of eyes trailed her every step—smirks blatantly on display, even a fan couldn't hide one girl's glee as she whispered behind it to her companion. She didn't know who these people were. Didn't know who she was to them. But she could already tell, she hated them. Their enjoyment of her humiliation was palpable, filling the air with an almost tangible tension.
The empty desk was exactly where the journal had said it would be, third leftmost beside the second window. She pulled out the chair, set her satchel beside it, and lowered herself slowly, trying to meld herself with the class. Despite her absent memories, the lecture was easy to follow.
As she was about to take out her pen and notebook, a soft cough to her right interrupted her thoughts.
"Really, Eliana? Even a lowborn knows better than to use the same excuse twice."
Sitting beside her desk was a boy with golden hair and emerald eyes, his uniform impeccably pressed, not a crease out of place. His features were aristocratic—high cheekbones, straight nose, full lips curved in a smirk. A silver pin in the shape of a dragon marked his collar, suggesting he belonged to a different house than her own.
"It wasn't a lie. I was indeed up late studying." Or so she believed, if Colette weren't lying. Rather, was it merely an excuse prepared by her past selves for such questions? Something she would have to look into.
He arched a brow, glancing at her sidelong. "Perhaps, but your grades have been down the drain for semesters now. None would have believed you."
Eliana narrowed her eyes, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. This stranger knew her academic standing, spoke to her with familiarity, yet she couldn't even recall his name.
"Truly?" The word came out sharper than intended.
His smirk vanished, replaced by a look of genuine disappointment that somehow cut deeper than mockery would have. "How far must you fall before you admit you’re a failure?" He turned from her, addressing their professor instead, as if she no longer existed.
Fine. Two could play that game.
She faced forward, jaw tight, fury simmering beneath a facade of indifference. So focused on controlling her expression, she failed to notice the faint red glow emanating from the crystal pendant on her chest—slowly growing brighter with each passing second, pulsing in rhythm with her anger.