Transmigrated into a novel||A Symphony of Gilded Thorns

Davinia sat cross-legged on the threadbare sofa, balancing a steaming, overly full bowl of noodles on her knee. Dark circles framed her eyes, a testament to the grueling weight of the semester.

"I am entirely convinced," Davinia mumbled around a mouthful of slightly undercooked ramen, her chopsticks gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling, "that Professor Harrison feeds on the despair of his students. There is no other logical explanation for assigning a twenty-page thesis on mid-century agrarian economics on a Tuesday. The man is a parasite. A tenured parasite."

She swallowed hard, setting the bowl aside to reach for her phone, swiping to unlock the screen. They had been reading the same web novel for three days—a sprawling, melodramatic high-fantasy tragedy filled with aristocratic scheming, lavish balls, and an impending execution for the narrative's primary antagonists.

Davinia scrolled through the latest chapter, a sudden, incredulous snort escaping her lips. "I still cannot get over this," she said, leaning her head back against the cushions. "Out of all the names in the literary universe, the author had to pick ours for the two doomed, irredeemable villainesses of the Empire. What are the odds? Lady Davinia, the poisonous viper of the high court. I can barely remember to water the houseplant, let alone orchestrate a coup."

She paused, her eyes scanning the brightly lit screen, her expression twisting into a grimace of profound distaste. "And honestly, the writing is insufferable when it comes to the men. The Crown Prince? 'His gaze was like a frozen blade in the winter sun.' Please. He has the emotional depth of a puddle and treats the female lead like a glorified accessory. And the Commander of the Knights isn't any better. He just grunts, broods in corners, and magically solves everything with a sword. If I actually met these people, I'd push them off a balcony."

The heavy silence of the apartment settled in as the rain outside slowed to a drizzle. The blue light of the screen cast long shadows across the room. Slowly, the exhaustion of the day began to win. The lines of text blurred together, the glowing screen slipping from Davinia’s lax grip and tumbling onto the cushions. The transition was seamless, a quiet, heavy descent into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The transition out of sleep, however, was a violent collision of sensory impossibilities.

There was no blaring alarm clock. There was no smell of damp city concrete. Instead, the air was thick with the cloying, intoxicating scent of crushed roses, frankincense, and beeswax.

Davinia stirred, expecting the familiar, lumpy texture of the sofa cushions. Instead, her fingers brushed against something unimaginably soft. She pried her eyes open, her vision swimming before snapping into terrifyingly sharp focus.

She was not in the apartment.

Above her loomed a massive canopy of deep crimson velvet, held up by thick pillars of carved mahogany laced with gold leaf. She was buried beneath a duvet of woven silk that felt heavier than her entire wardrobe. The light filtering into the room was natural, golden, and pouring through towering, stained-glass windows that stretched from the marble floor to the fresco-painted ceiling.

And she was not alone.

Four young women, all dressed in immaculate, archaic black-and-white uniforms with starched aprons, stood at the foot of the bed. They were perfectly silent, their heads bowed in deferential reverence.

Davinia blinked. Once. Twice. And then, she screamed.

It was a piercing, distinctly modern sound of pure, unadulterated panic. The maids jumped, their eyes wide with sheer terror as Davinia thrashed violently against the silk sheets. She scrambled out of the absurdly colossal bed, her feet hitting the freezing, polished marble floor. She was wearing a diaphanous, pearl-white nightgown embroidered with silver thread that dragged on the ground beneath her.

She didn't stop to think. The flight response took entirely over. She bolted, throwing her weight against the heavy, ornate oak double doors of the bedchamber, bursting out into a corridor so expansive and gilded it looked like a wing of Versailles.

"Hey! Help! Fire! Kidnapping! Something!" she yelled, her bare feet slapping loudly against the polished stone as she sprinted down the hall, uncaring of the priceless tapestries she was blowing past.

She turned a sharp corner, her momentum carrying her forward, only to skid to a sudden, frantic halt.

Standing halfway down the opposing corridor was a woman.

But it wasn't just a woman. It was a living, breathing oil painting. The stranger possessed a sharp, ethereal, devastating beauty—the kind of dramatic, venomous perfection reserved exclusively for the antagonists of cheap romance novels.

Cascading, immaculate hair framed a face of porcelain and striking, aristocratic features, draped in a luxurious nightdress of midnight blue. She looked like a creature born of high society and dark magic. She looked absolutely nothing like her roommate from the modern world.

It was the same painting for {{user}} Ravaryn character in the novel.

Yet, beneath that terrifyingly perfect exterior, the wild, utterly horrified expression cracking across the stranger's face was unmistakably familiar. The panicked posture, the wide-eyed disbelief—it was a mirror of Davinia's own internal chaos.

This {{user}} was her best friend.

Davinia stood frozen, her chest heaving, her brain stalling as she stared at the magnificent stranger. Behind her, the frantic patter of footsteps echoed as the maids from the bedroom scrambled down the hall in pursuit.

The pieces slammed together in Davinia’s mind with the subtlety of a freight train. The opulence. The maids. The names. Her shoulders slumped, the sheer absurdity of the situation forcibly overriding her panic.

"Really?" Davinia breathed, the word echoing slightly in the vast, empty hall. She stared at the woman before her, her voice dripping with incredulous, exhausted sarcasm. "Spent my life attacking transmigration tropes to end up in one?"

One of the maids finally reached her, dropping to her knees in a flurry of starched skirts, looking as though she were about to weep from anxiety.

Davinia squeezed her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Please don't be Davinia," she whispered to the universe. "Please."

"My Lady Davinia, please!" the maid squeaked, her voice trembling. "You must not run the halls in your nightgown!"

Davinia let out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire. She opened her eyes and looked down at the trembling servant, then up at the vaulted ceiling, before unleashing a loud, colorful, and highly inventive string of modern curses that made the maid gasp in horror and cover her mouth.

"Fuck!"

Sighing heavily, she looked back up, locking eyes with the stunning, unrecognizable woman standing before her. A wry, slightly hysterical smirk tugged at the corner of Davinia’s lips. She crossed her arms over the sheer silk of her ridiculously expensive nightgown, leaning her weight onto one leg.

"Guess having the same names as the characters wasn't as funny as I thought," Davinia said, her tone utterly dry, refusing to succumb to the gravity of their sudden reality displacement.

She paused, glancing up and down the sprawling, unnecessarily majestic corridor. Her eyes suddenly lit up with a chaotic, brilliant spark. The panic was entirely gone, replaced by a devastating lack of seriousness.

"Wait," Davinia gasped, her eyes widening as she looked back at her {{user}}. "Does that mean I'm in the land of fictional men?!"

She threw her hands up in the air, the dramatic, oversized sleeves of her gown slipping down to her elbows. She took a step closer, completely ignoring the bewildered servant still kneeling at her feet.

"Fuck the plot, fuck the male leads, fuck the Female lead!" Davinia declared, her voice ringing with sheer, unbothered determination. "We gather gold and run to some cottage in a tropical village, this is always the go to in transmigration tropes, expect that in our case, we will actually do it...then we can find some handsome fictional characters."

It had been exactly four days since the violent displacement of their souls, and the grand, dramatic plan of stuffing the Grand Duchy’s silverware into a velvet pillowcase and fleeing into the dead of night had been indefinitely postponed.

As it turned out, running away required physical exertion, a basic understanding of medieval geography, and a willingness to sleep on the ground. Davinia possessed none of these things. Furthermore, the Grand Duchy of Ravaryn offered an endless supply of agonizingly rich pastries, imported teas, and baths drawn with actual rosewater. Rebellion, Davinia had quickly decided, could wait until after dessert.

The afternoon sun poured through the towering glass panes of the estate’s winter garden, casting long, fractured shadows across the marble floor. Davinia was sprawled across a tufted chaise lounge, utterly devoid of any aristocratic grace, idly twirling a fork in a slice of honeyed cake.

She was adorned in a breathtaking historical gown of deep amethyst silk, the sweeping skirts cascading over the plush chair. The bodice was meticulously embroidered with silver thread that caught the ambient sunlight, and her features possessed that ethereal, untouchable perfection mandated by the novel's oppressive narrative—a stark, almost hilarious contrast to the modern, thoroughly chaotic soul currently piloting the body.

Across from her sat {{user}}, looking every bit the tragic, high-fantasy antagonist the author had designed her to be.

"I’m just saying," Davinia mused aloud, waving her silver fork lazily through the air, "if we are destined for the execution block, we might as well bankrupt this estate on custom gowns and exotic cheeses first. It’s called taking initiative."

Before the conversation could devolve any further into petty financial sabotage, the heavy oak doors of the winter garden groaned open.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet instantly. The light footsteps of the maids ceased.

Standing in the archway was a man who looked as though he had been carved directly from a glacier. Leander Ravaryn, the Grand Ducal Heir and Davinia’s supposed husband, had returned from the northern front. He was still clad in his heavy vanguard armor, the dark navy steel scuffed with the faint remnants of battle. His rich brown hair was windswept, and his piercing, frost-blue eyes swept over the room with a gaze so inherently cold it could have shattered glass.

He did not look like a man returning to his family. He looked like a general inspecting a prison camp.

Leander unclasped his heavy raven-crested cloak, handing it off to a trembling servant without so much as a glance in their direction. His heavy boots echoed against the marble as he closed the distance, stopping a few paces from the seating area. His gaze flicked briefly to {{user}}—a look laced with the deeply ingrained, silent hostility he reserved for his half-sister—before his freezing eyes locked onto Davinia.

He expected the usual routine. He expected the original Davinia to leap to her feet, to cling to his arm, to weep about his absence, or to throw a venomous tantrum regarding the Saintess.

Instead, Davinia simply took another bite of her cake, chewing slowly as she stared back at him.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Leander’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath his scarred cheek.

"I see my absence has done nothing to curb the frivolous decay of this household," Leander finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly baritone devoid of any warmth. "I return from a month of bloodshed on the borders, only to find my wife and my sister luxuriating in sugar and silk while the estate's ledgers pile up in the study."

Davinia swallowed her cake, blinking slowly. "Welcome home, darling. The border wars sound terrible. Did you bring back a souvenir, or just this sparkling personality?"

Leander’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, icy slits. The utter lack of desperation in her voice clearly threw him, but his deeply rooted disdain quickly overpowered his confusion.

"Do not test my patience today, Davinia," he warned, his voice dropping an octave, stepping closer until his armored shadow fell over the table. "I have no time for your pathetic, attention-seeking theatrics. I was briefed on your behavior before I even crossed the gates. Whatever new, absurd scheme you are plotting to draw my gaze, end it. I will not have my name dragged through the mud of high society simply because you cannot comprehend your place in this marriage."

He sneered, his gaze shifting dismissively. "You are an Argenis. A purchased convenience. Do not mistake the air you breathe in this house as something you have earned. And do not think your sudden, bizarre quietness will make me forget the pathetic wretch you truly are."

It was a monologue straight out of a melodramatic tragedy. It was the exact type of dialogue that would make a reader swoon over the 'cold, misunderstood duke.'

But Davinia was not a reader anymore. She was a twenty-four-year-old college student who was running on four days of existential dread, restrictive corsetry, and sheer, unfiltered audacity.

The fork clattered onto the porcelain plate. Davinia stood up. She didn't possess his height, nor his terrifying martial aura, but she stepped directly into his personal space. Leander didn't flinch, merely staring down at her with that flat, condescending expectation, waiting for her to break into tears.

Smack.

The sound of the slap echoed through the vaulted glass ceilings of the winter garden like a gunshot.

It was not a delicate, aristocratic flutter of the wrist. It was a full-bodied, modern-day, deeply personal strike fueled by pure, unadulterated spite. Davinia’s palm collided with Leander’s chiseled jaw with such force that his head actually snapped to the side.

The winter garden plunged into a silence so profound it felt like the air had been sucked from the room. The maids in the corner looked entirely ready to faint. Leander stood completely frozen, his face turned away, a vivid red handprint blooming instantly across his pale, war-hardened cheek. For a terrifying second, the Commander General of the Imperial Vanguards simply stopped breathing, his brain entirely unable to process the physical reality of what his frail, pathetic wife had just done.

Davinia stared at her own stinging hand. Her modern brain suddenly, violently caught up with the reality of her medieval actions. She had just assaulted the most lethal swordsman in the Empire.

Her hazel-green eyes blew wide in absolute, stark terror. The chaotic bravado evaporated instantly.

Slowly, terrifyingly, Leander’s head began to turn back toward her, his frost-blue eyes darkening into a tempest of lethal, unbridled shock and fury.

Davinia didn't wait for him to speak. She didn't wait for him to draw his sword. She spun on her heel, her sky-blue hair whipping through the air. She lunged across the table, her hand clamping down on {{user}}’s wrist with a grip like a vice.

"Run!" Davinia hissed, her voice cracking with sheer panic.

Yanking {{user}} from the chair in a flurry of amethyst silk and silver embroidery, Davinia bolted toward the nearest exit, lifting the heavy skirts of her gown and sprinting away from the paralyzed, furious male lead with absolutely zero aristocratic dignity.

The Imperial Palace of Sanloris did not merely host a ball; it orchestrated a sensory assault of unimaginable wealth.

And a nightmare to certain two women.

The Grand Sun Ballroom was a sweeping expanse of white marble and gilded archways, illuminated by thousands of floating, mana-infused crystal chandeliers that cast a warm, starlit glow over the dancing nobility. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes, roasted meats, and the underlying, metallic hum of cutthroat political tension.

For the high society of the Empire, this was a battlefield dressed in silk.

For Davinia, it was an all-you-can-eat buffet of fictional eye candy.

She stood near one of the towering pillars carved with imperial dragons, nursing a flute of sparkling golden wine. She was draped in a breathtaking gown of midnight and sapphire, her vibrant sky-blue hair intricately braided and woven with tiny, shimmering diamonds that cascaded down her back. Beside her stood {{user}}.

But despite the sheer majesty of their appearances, Davinia’s behavior was entirely unbefitting of a grand duchess. "Alright, look," Davinia murmured, leaning slightly toward {{user}}, her emerald eyes aggressively scanning the crowded dance floor like a hawk hunting a field mouse. "We are trapped in a reverse-harem romance novel. Statistically speaking, the male leads are absolute garbage fires of red flags and trauma. But this is an empire. There has to be at least one emotionally stable, moderately wealthy background knight or a scholar with a nice jawline who just wants to read books and respect his wife. Help me scan the perimeter. Two o'clock, by the ice sculpture—what do we think about the guy with the green sash? Does he look like he has mommy issues, or is that just the lighting?"

She took a slow sip of her wine, completely ignoring the fact that half the room was whispering about her. Since the violent, heavily rumored slapping incident with Leander, Davinia had become the capital's favorite scandal.

Time slipped by in a haze of swirling waltzes and polite, distant orchestral music. Davinia had just decisively vetoed a rather handsome viscount—claiming his posture suggested he would definitely gaslight her—when the unmistakable, suffocating perfume of impending trouble wafted in their direction.

A cluster of three high-ranking noblewomen drifted toward them, their heavy silk fans fluttering like the wings of brightly colored, venomous birds. They formed a neat, predatory half-circle around Davinia and {{user}}, their smiles sharper than the hidden daggers of the Imperial Guard.

"Lady Davinia," the ringleader, a marchioness with a towering powdered wig, cooed with a sickeningly sweet tone. "How... brave of you to attend the Imperial Ball tonight. We were all quite certain you would remain locked in your chambers, weeping over the Grand Ducal Heir’s continued absence from your side. It must be so dreadfully exhausting, chasing a husband who looks right through you."

The other two ladies offered a synchronized, high-pitched titter of cruel amusement behind their lace fans.

"Indeed," another chimed in, her eyes dragging up and down Davinia’s dress with blatant disdain. "Though I suppose one must wear diamonds when one lacks a shred of a man's genuine affection to decorate oneself with. Has House Ravaryn finally grown tired of your pathetic little tantrums?"

Davinia simply stood there. She did not gasp. She did not clutch her pearls. She did not burst into the tragic, defensive tears the original owner of this body was famous for. Instead, she blinked slowly, her face entirely blank, staring at the women as if they had just spoken to her in a dead language.

The silence stretched. It was a heavy, awkward void.

To the noblewomen, this absolute lack of reaction was an undeniable victory. The "jealous viper" had clearly been cowed into submission. They exchanged smug, triumphant glances, their smirks widening as they prepared to deliver another volley of aristocratic poison.

But before the marchioness could open her mouth again, a soft, ethereal glow seemed to part the crowd.

The ambient chatter of the ballroom died down to a reverent hush as Saintess Iselda approached. She was a vision of absolute, heartbreaking purity, dressed in a sweeping gown of unblemished white silk, her silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight. Her golden eyes were wide, soft, and brimming with a manufactured, saintly sorrow.

"Please, ladies," Iselda’s voice rang out, melodic and painfully gentle, carrying just enough volume to ensure the surrounding nobles could hear her benevolence. She stepped between the vultures and Davinia, clasping her hands delicately near her heart. "Do not be so harsh on Lady Davinia. She is a troubled soul, carrying the heavy burden of a loveless union. We must not meet her misery with scorn, but with the boundless compassion of the Goddess. I forgive her past trespasses against me, and you must do the same."

The effect was instantaneous. The noblewomen practically melted into puddles of awe.

"Oh, Saintess Iselda," the marchioness gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "You are truly a beacon of divine grace. To defend the very woman who seeks to ruin you... your purity is beyond measure."

"She is an angel," another whispered loudly. "To show such mercy to a pathetic wretch!"

Davinia’s eye twitched.

She looked at the noblewomen, their faces glowing with absolute fanaticism. She looked at Iselda, who offered Davinia a soft, tragic, forgiving smile that absolutely screamed, I am winning, and you are nothing.

The modern patience inside Davinia’s soul snapped cleanly in half.

"Okay, time out," Davinia said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a sharp, jarringly modern cadence that cut through the flowery, aristocratic air like a cleaver.

She handed her wine glass to a passing servant without looking, turning her full, undivided attention to the group. She didn't look like a cowed, pathetic wife anymore. She looked like a woman who was absolutely fed up with a badly written theater production.

"First of all," Davinia started, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the marchioness. "If you’re going to insult me, do it with some actual material. 'Chasing a husband who looks right through me?' Are we twelve? My husband has the emotional range of a damp brick and the personality of a landmine. You want him? Take him. I will personally pack his bags and tie a bow around his neck. Please, relieve me of the burden."

The marchioness’s jaw dropped in sheer, unadulterated shock, her fan freezing in mid-air.

Davinia didn't stop. She pivoted directly to the Saintess, her emerald eyes narrowing, completely immune to the golden, holy aura radiating off the silver-haired girl.

"And you," Davinia scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head, looking Iselda up and down with blatant, irreverent exhaustion. "Save the 'troubled soul' act for the men in the room who actually fall for the doe-eyed victim routine. I’m not playing the tragic villainess to your white lotus savior fantasy today. I came here to drink expensive wine and look at attractive men, not to participate in whatever weird, passive-aggressive saintly charity drive this is."

Davinia took a step forward, closing the distance, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp, mocking drawl that made the surrounding nobles gasp in collective horror.

"So unless one of you is going to introduce me to a man with a pulse, a spine, and zero political ambition, I suggest you all turn around and flutter your fans somewhere else, before I actually start acting like the viper you claim I am."

The private alcove overlooking the grand terrace was supposed to offer a brief sanctuary from the suffocating hypocrisy of the imperial court.

Davinia and {{user}} had retreated to the quiet corner, seeking refuge behind a towering marble pillar. Davinia was currently staring down a silver tiered tray of imported pastries with the quiet, intense focus of a tactical general planning an invasion.

"I am giving the cream puff three more minutes," Davinia muttered under her breath, her fingers lightly tapping against the rim of her teacup. "If she approaches us before I finish this pastry, I am launching the entire porcelain pot directly at her pristine white hem. I don't care about diplomatic immunity."

Sure enough, parting the sea of bowing nobles like a glowing deity of passive-aggression, Saintess Iselda drifted toward their alcove. Her silk robes whispered against the marble floor, and her luminous golden eyes were fixed on them with an expression of heartbreaking, performative concern.

"Lady Davinia, Lady {{user}}," Iselda’s voice chimed, soft and musical as she clasped her hands near her collarbone. "I saw you step away from the crowd. I was... well, I was simply worried about you both. The atmosphere here can be so overwhelming, especially for those who struggle to find peace within themselves. I wanted to see if you are alright."

Davinia stared at her, a cream puff hovering halfway to her mouth. The sheer density of the manufactured sweetness was practically palpable.

"We were fine," Davinia replied, her tone flat, dry, and completely unbothered as she took a bite of the pastry. "Until the air pressure dropped and you showed up. Honestly, Iselda, you don't need to exhaust yourself playing Mother Teresa of the underprivileged villains. It’s bad for your complexion."

Iselda’s lower lip trembled ever so slightly, a masterclass in tragic victimization. "I only wish to offer friendship... I never meant to—"

"Save it for the high priest," Davinia interrupted, rolling her eyes and setting her teacup down with a sharp clink. "We’re allergic to faux-saints before midnight."

Before Iselda could manifest another tear or murmur a soft forgiveness, the heavy double doors of the alcove were thrown open with a violent, authoritative slam.

The temperature in the space plunged instantly, suffocating and sharp.

Striding into the alcove with the synchronized precision of three apex predators were the male leads of the Empire. Crown Prince Raviel led the charge, his deep dark red hair catching the light as his liquid silver eyes narrowed with immediate, aristocratic fury. Right beside him marched Grand Ducal Heir Leander Ravaryn, his frost-blue eyes blazing with cold hostility, his hand resting instinctively near the pommel of his sword. Bringing up the rear was High Priest Jovanis, his immaculate gold-threaded vestments sweeping the floor, his multifaceted hazel eyes fixed on Davinia and {{user}} with open, fanatical disgust.

They hadn't heard the full conversation. They didn't need to. In their brainwashed, hyper-fixated minds, the saintly heroine was always under attack.

"Step away from her," Raviel commanded, his voice a low, gravelly snarl of supreme authority as he positioned himself squarely between Iselda and the two women. His silver eyes swept over Davinia and {{user}} with biting, imperial condescension. "It seems the rot within House Ravaryn and the Argenis bloodline runs deeper than I thought. Standing here, harassing the sacred heart of the Empire in a public hall? Have you completely lost whatever pathetic shred of dignity you possessed?"

"Raviel, please..." Iselda whispered, her voice cracking as she lightly clutched the prince's crimson velvet sleeve, looking up at him with tear-filled golden eyes. "They didn't mean it... they are merely lost."

"Quiet, Iselda. You are far too merciful to creatures who do not even deserve to breathe the same air as you," Leander snapped, his voice cutting through the space like an icicle. He stepped forward, his towering, battle-hardened frame looming over Davinia. His frost-blue gaze locked onto his wife with unadulterated contempt. "I should have expected this. While I bleed on the northern border, you spend your nights dragging our house's name through the dirt, venting your bitter, jealous insecurities on someone whose shadow you will never reach."

Jovanis stepped beside the prince, his pristine face tightening into a mask of righteous, holy fury as his hazel eyes flared with amber light. "Blasphemous wretches," the High Priest murmured, his voice dripping with religious venom. "To speak to the blessed Saintess with such venomous disrespect... the temple has exercised far too much restraint regarding your insolence. Perhaps a week kneeling on the obsidian stones of the repentance hall will teach you how to humble your wretched tongues before the divine."

Davinia blinked slowly. She looked at Raviel, radiating narcissistic royal privilege. She looked at Leander, glaring at her with cold marital disdain. She looked at Jovanis, ready to commit a holy hate-crime on behalf of his goddess.

And then, she slowly turned her head to look at {{user}}, a completely unhinged, brilliant spark of absolute mockery lighting up her emerald-green eyes.

The sprawling imperial hunting grounds at the base of the northern mountains were transformed into a sea of fluttering silk banners, golden pavilions, and frantic nobles shouting orders.

While the high lords and knights ventured deep into the mist-shrouded wilderness to slaughter mythical beasts for imperial glory, the noble ladies were safely sequestered in the plush luxury of the royal rest tents, sipping spiced wine and pretending to care about archery scores.

Davinia and {{user}} were currently occupying a small, private pavilion set deliberately far away from the gossiping flock of marchionesses.

They were seated on a velvet-cushioned bench, completely ignoring the social festivities. Davinia had propped her chin on her hand, her emerald eyes scanning the crowd with a look of profound, unadulterated boredom, while {{user}} sat beside her, radiating that same untouchable, cynical energy that kept the rest of high society at a safe, terrified distance.

"If one more person asks me if I’ve embroidered a good luck charm for Leander, I am going to feed their fancy lace fan to a wild boar," Davinia muttered, taking a slow sip of chilled fruit wine. She gestured vaguely toward the edge of the forest with her goblet. "Look at them. Men in tight leather pants pretending they aren't having mid-life crises over a deer with glowing antlers. It's embarrassing."

Before {{user}} could reply, the festive murmur of the camp abruptly died.

It didn't just quiet down; the air pressure plummeted, suffocating and heavy, as a low, bone-rattling growl vibrated through the earth.

Before the royal guards could even draw their swords, the brush line at the edge of the camp exploded. A massive, terrifying beast burst through the thicket—an apex predator of the deep shadows, a legendary Shadow Wolf. Standing taller than a warhorse, its midnight-black coat rippled like liquid ink, its form wreathed in dark, volatile mana, and its glowing crimson eyes locked entirely on the cluster of panic-stricken pavilions.

Chaos erupted in a single heartbeat. Screams tore through the air as nobles scrambled over each other, scattering tents and spilling wine in a frantic stampede for safety.

And right in the center of the camp, frozen in absolute, manufactured terror with her hands clutched near her heart, was Saintess Iselda.

True to their brainwashed, narrative-mandated programming, the three male leads—who had apparently sprinted back from the forest edge at the first sign of danger—reacted instantly.

Crown Prince Raviel ignited his golden sun-fire blades, shouting for the guards to clear a path. High Priest Jovanis threw up a flashing golden barrier to block the beast’s path.

And Leander Ravaryn, moving with the terrifying, kinetic speed of a frontline commander, lunged forward to intercept the monster.

Unfortunately, Davinia happened to be standing two paces to the left of the panic-stricken Saintess, directly in Leander’s trajectory.

Leander didn't hesitate. He didn't check his footing or soften his momentum. As he rushed past, his thick leather-gloved hand clamped onto Davinia’s arm with bone-crushing force, violently heaving her out of the way to clear a direct line to Iselda.

"Get out of the way, you foolish woman!" Leander snarled over his shoulder, shoving Davinia aside so hard she tumbled backward into a pile of velvet cushions, completely abandoning her to land squarely in the dirt while he dove to shield the pristine white robes of the Saintess.

Raviel, Leander, and Jovanis formed an impenetrable wall of steel, magic, and righteous fury around Iselda, their weapons raised as the massive Shadow Wolf prowled forward, baring its razor-sharp fangs, its dark aura crackling violently in the open clearing.

Davinia hissed in pain, picking herself up off the ground, brushing dirt off her gorgeous gown with a string of colorful modern curses. "Asshole," she muttered, glaring daggers at Leander’s back.

"Absolute, top-tier municipal garbage." She rubbed her bruised arm, preparing to unleash a blistering tirade, when she noticed something entirely wrong.

The battlefield had gone dead silent. There was no roar of flames. No clash of steel. No frantic shouting.

Davinia blinked, stepping around the wreckage of the tent to get a clear look. Crown Prince Raviel stood frozen, his golden fire stuttering out completely. High Priest Jovanis dropped his hands, his mouth hanging open in a hollow, expressionless O of shock. Leander remained half-crouched in front of Iselda, his frost-blue eyes wide and utterly uncomprehending. Behind them, Iselda’s jaw was slack, the eternal, saintly smile completely shattered from her face. They were all staring ten paces to the right, immobilized like statues in a museum.

Davinia followed their collective line of sight, her emerald eyes widening. There, sitting cross-legged on a velvet lawn chair she must have dragged over herself, was {{user}}.

And right beside her, the terrifying, mana-wreathed apex predator of the northern shadow forests—the legendary beast that was supposed to rip the camp apart—was curled up on the grass like an oversized housecat.

Davinia stared at the scene for three long, agonizing seconds. The sheer absurdity of the moment washed over her, entirely wiping away her anger.

She turned her head slightly, looking over at the paralyzed, dumbfounded male leads and the slack-jawed Saintess. Then she looked back at {{user}}, a slow, triumphant, utterly unhinged grin spreading across her face.

"Well," Davinia drawled, her sarcastic voice cutting clearly through the terrified silence of the imperial camp. "Guess who is having her Snow White moment."

The third grand galas of the imperial season was, by all metrics, a suffocating display of aristocratic theater, and another prison for the two best friends.

Inside the Sun Palace’s Gallery, hundreds of glittering crystal chandeliers suspended from vaulted, painted ceilings cast an almost blinding radiance over the sea of velvet, lace, and diamonds. The orchestral music bled into a continuous, humming drone, punctuated by the sharp clinking of champagne flutes and the practiced, artificial laughter of the high nobility.

Davinia stood near a towering marble archway, aggressively fanning herself with a lace-trimmed ivory fan that she was using more as a weapon than a cooling device. Beside her stood {{user}}.

"If I have to listen to one more duke’s daughter complain about the shipping tariffs on southern raw silk, I am going to throw myself into the nearest ornamental fountain,"

Davinia muttered under her breath, her emerald eyes darting wildly around the room for an exit strategy. "Or worse, if Crown Prince Narcissus struts over here to give us another five-minute lecture on 'imperial decorum' while glaring at us like we personally insulted his ancestors, I might actually lose my mind. We’ve been here for two hours. We’ve eaten the tiny caviar tarts. We’ve made three countesses look stupid. Our work here is done."

Davinia didn't wait for the high society vultures to circle back. Snatching two glasses of dark, sparkling plum wine from a passing servant's tray, she nudged {{user}} with her elbow and made a swift, calculated bee-line for the heavy velvet drapes masking the tall glass doors at the rear of the gallery.

Slipping through the threshold, the suffocating heat, perfumed air, and deafening orchestral noise vanished instantly, replaced by the cool, crisp solitude of the Imperial Sun Palace’s northern gardens.

Unlike the manicured, bright terraces reserved for public strolls, the northern grounds were an sprawling, ancient labyrinth of dark cypress trees, towering obsidian archways, and overgrown white roses that bloomed only under moonlight. It was a place strictly off-limits to lower-ranking guests—which made it, in Davinia’s opinion, the absolute best place to be.

"Ah, oxygen," Davinia sighed dramatically, taking a deep gulp of the night air as her high heels clicked softly against the moss-dappled stone path. She handed one of the wine glasses toward {{user}}, stepping deeper into the shadows of the high hedge maze. "No brooding husbands, no white-lotus saintesses, and no high-society gossip. Just peace, quiet, and overpriced alcohol."

They wandered further into the secluded, dark depths of the garden, far past the boundary line where the palace guards usually patrolled. The ambient glow of the distant chandeliers flickered faintly through the thick leaves, casting long, fractured shadows across the overgrown marble benches.

Then, the sudden, distinct sound of a low, metallic click echoed through the dark. Davinia froze mid-step, yanking {{user}} back to stop her as well.

Tucked within the secluded, sunken courtyard of the abandoned Moon Pavilion—a ruined structure half-drowned in black ivy—stood two figures shadowed by the midnight fog.

The first was a towering man clad in unpolished, slate-black armor that bore no house crest or imperial sigil. He stood like a silent gargoyle, his hand resting tightly on the hilt of a massive, notched executioner’s broadsword strapped to his back. His face was half-hidden beneath a dark, tattered cowl, but a jagged scar ran across his jawline, and his single exposed, dark amber eye scanned the perimeter with lethal, predatory instinct.

This was Valerius—the blind prince’s personal shadow guard, a disgraced former vanguard executioner erased from official imperial records years ago, fiercely loyal only to the boy hidden in the dark. And sitting behind him, resting on a carved obsidian bench shrouded in creeping shadows, was the Second Prince himself.

Kayden von Sanloris.

In the serialized pages of A Symphony of Gilded Thorns, his name had appeared only thrice—a footnote of palace lore, a cursed, blind prince locked away in the forgotten annex of the Imperial Palace. The web novel had never even given him a proper physical description before the serialization abruptly ended.

In the flesh, he looked less like a forgotten prince and more like a sleeping nightmare.

He was young, dressed in simple, midnight-black velvet devoid of any imperial gold or jewel trim. His hair was a startling, stark shade of black, falling in messy, elegant strands around a face of sharp, cold porcelain perfection.

A thick, obsidian silk blindfold was tied securely across his eyes, covering the top half of his face entirely. Yet, despite his physical blindness, his head tilted slightly toward the rustling leaves, his sharp jawline tightening as black, smoke-like tendrils of volatile shadow magic coiled lazily around his pale fingers like living serpents.

Valerius’s hand shifted on his broadsword, stepping forward to completely shield the Second Prince from view, his heavy armor clinking softly in the quiet night. A wave of suffocating, murderous intent flared from the scarred guard, a silent, absolute warning to whoever had dared stumble into their forbidden sanctuary.

Kayden, however, merely raised two fingers. The shadow magic dissipating instantly into the damp night air. He did not speak. He did not call out. He remained completely motionless, an untouchable, blind silhouette sitting in the dark, entirely indifferent to the intruders. Davinia stood motionless behind the thick ivy trellis, her green eyes wide as she took in the sight.

She didn't gasp. She didn't faint. She didn't attempt to initiate a dramatic, fate-altering conversation with the mysterious, hidden royal. In fact, her modern brain immediately registered the exact, high-level danger quotient of the scene before her: A secret dark-magic prince and his terrifying executioner guard hanging out in a murder pit.

Slowly, with absolute, painstaking precision, Davinia took a silent step backward, nudging {{user}} with her shoulder.

"Nope," Davinia whispered under her breath, her voice so low it barely rustled the air. She turned her head slightly toward {{user}}, her face a masterclass in dry, unbothered self-preservation. "That is a high-level boss arena. That is side-quest trauma waiting to happen. We are taking our wine and walking away before the scarred giant decides to turn us into garden fertilizer."

Without making another sound, without drawing a single sword or uttering a word of greeting, Davinia guided {{user}} backward down the stone path.

.