The mailbox tries to kill me before breakfast.
Not literally. Probably.
But when I open my eyes, there's a new icon pulsing at the edge of my HUD like an overexcited notification bubble.
NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED: SOCIAL INVITATIONSYou are now:– A Hero of the Ridge– Fiancée(s) of Important People– Scandalous Fire-Genre Centerpiece
Result: Everyone with a chair and access to tea wants you.
Current Inbox: 47 pending invitations.Risk Level: Variable (Poison / Politics / Emotional Damage)
I squint at it.
"Absolutely not," I tell the air.
"'Absolutely not' what?" Mira asks from my bedside, without looking up from the tiny kettle she's tending.
I blink.
I'm propped up against my usual fortress of pillows; there's sunlight streaming in; and Mira is at the small side table, brewing something that smells like herbs and faint honey. Her hair is braided over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, expression focused.
"Good morning," I say cautiously. "Are we…doing alchemy?"
"Something like that," she says. "I adjusted your tonic. Less bitter, more floral. You frowned in your sleep yesterday."
"You watched me in my sleep?" I ask.
"Yes," she says simply. "You twitched. It was concerning."
I decide not to unpack that.
"New HUD feature," I say instead, flicking the icon open with a thought. Windows bloom into existence over my bed: dainty parchment textures, neat cursive fonts, wax seals rendered in absurd detail.
Mira glances over, then gasps softly.
"Oh," she says. "They've started."
"'They'?" I echo.
"The tea invitations," she says, as if that explains everything. "I was wondering when they'd arrive."
I stare at her.
"You knew this was going to happen?"
"Of course," Mira says, getting up to bring me a steaming cup of Not-Poison-Probably-Tea. "The noblewomen of the capital love three things: gossip, tea, and attaching themselves to rising suns."
She offers me the cup. I accept it, inhaling the gentle aroma.
"You are currently the brightest fire in the city," she says gently. "Everyone wants to sit close and feel warm."
I blow on the tea, trying not to let that metaphor get to me.
The HUD helpfully lists the first few invitations:
1. Duchess Valenne of Ravengate invites Lady Fiametta to an intimate afternoon tea (and discreet interrogation).Rating: 3/5 Tea Spoons – Mild Political Risk.
2. The Young Ladies' Salon of the Western Court requests the honor of your presence at their Hero Appreciation Tea:Theme: "Villainesses, Vows, and Victory."Rating: 4/5 Tea Spoons – High Gossip Risk.
3. Her Highness Princess Elenora (age 8) invites Big Sister Fia to a teddy bear tea party in the Rose Garden.Rating: 0/5 Tea Spoons – Critical Cuteness.
The third one nearly makes me drop my cup.
"Princess Elenora…?" I repeat.
Mira smiles. "The Emperor's youngest. She idolizes you."
"In the base game, she doesn't even exist," I mutter. "They left the tiny chaos goblin out?"
"Children don't test well with romance demographics," Lyriel says from the doorway, making me jump. "But in reality, they're unavoidable."
She steps into the room, followed by Seraphine and Elira. Apparently there was a secret "enter in affectionate formation" signal I missed.
Seraphine's eyes go straight to the hovering windows.
"Ah," she says flatly. "There they are."
"You all knew this was going to happen," I accuse.
"Yes," all three say at once.
Elira shuts the door with her bootheel and leans against it like she's guarding a fortress. "We were kind of hoping it would wait a few more days," she adds. "But the capital's noblewomen have no chill."
"The war only just ended," Seraphine says, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We have wounded, supply lines to rebuild, legislation to draft. And yet the first thing half the duchesses did was send the palace florists into overdrive."
"They consider it morale work," Lyriel says dryly. "If they can confirm the empire's brightest scandal is alive, well, and wearing a nice dress, they sleep better."
"Why am I the scandal?" I demand. "I died zero times this month."
"You also accepted four public proposals," Mira reminds me gently.
"…Fair."
Seraphine moves closer, scanning the visible invite list. Her expression grows progressively more offended.
"Valenne," she mutters. "Of course. She backed three different factions against my policies and now she wants to 'chat over tea'?"
"She wants to measure Fia," Lyriel says. "See how soft her heart is. See if she can be swayed."
Elira snorts. "Good luck. Fia's soft and stubborn."
My chest does an embarrassing little flip.
Mira points at the second invite. "The Young Ladies' Salon… That's going to be chaos."
"Define Young," I say.
"Anywhere from fourteen to thirty," Lyriel says. "With wealthy parents and too much free time."
"No," Seraphine says instantly. "Absolutely not. That's a lion's den."
"They're mostly kittens," Mira protests. "Very sharp kittens. With fans."
"And poison," Seraphine says. "And sharp tongues. And unhealthy obsessions with tragedy."
I think of my maxed illness flag and wince.
"What about Princess Elenora?" I ask quickly, pointing at the small envelope icon with a crudely drawn bear on the seal. "Tea with a kid sounds…safe."
Seraphine visibly relaxes.
"That one's fine," she says. "I'll come."
"I was going to say I could handle a tea party with an eight-year-old alone," I say.
Four pairs of eyes swivel toward me.
[Seraphine – Protective Instinct: SPIKING][Elira – Territorial Instinct: ACTIVATED][Lyriel – Trust Issues: CONSTANT][Mira – Worry Level: 83%]
The HUD might as well be playing a siren.
"I will come," Seraphine repeats, in the tone of someone stating the law of gravity.
"She's our baby princess," Mira adds. "She can get…enthusiastic. It helps to have someone she listens to."
"She listens to me?" I ask, baffled.
"You're 'Big Sister Flame,'" Mira says.
I make a small noise and take a large gulp of tea to hide my face.
Elira pushes off the door and joins us at the bed.
"Okay," she says. "Let's triage. Which invites are actually safe for you to attend, and which ones are 'I want to gauge your weaknesses so I can use you against the Crown Princess later'?"
"Most of them," Lyriel says.
"You're not helping," I tell her.
Seraphine conjures a hardcopy from somewhere—apparently the physical invitations are in a basket on my desk that I hadn't noticed yet. A servant must have snuck in earlier and dumped them like loot.
She tips the pile onto the blanket. Envelopes in every shade of cream and pastel spill out. Wax seals glint: roses, wolves, ravens, fields of wheat, unfamiliar foreign crests.
"Okay," I say faintly. "This looks…normal."
"It's not," Seraphine says. "This is only day one."
Elira cracks her knuckles. "Let's go through them."
It turns into some kind of terrifying social audit.
Seraphine picks up each envelope, scans the seal, then reads the contents aloud in the formal "princess reviewing petitions" voice. Lyriel stands at her shoulder, murmuring commentary like a very judgmental wiki. Elira occasionally reaches out to snap an envelope in half when she particularly dislikes the sender. Mira makes soft distressed noises whenever the wording gets too passive-aggressive.
"Marchioness Darielle," Seraphine reads. " 'Humbly wishes to host a quiet tea in honor of Lady Fiametta's miraculous survival, to better understand the…nature of her power.'"
"Hard no," Lyriel says. "Darielle runs half the rumor mills on the south side. She's been trying to map Fia's limits since the first council report."
"Also, her son is rumored to be looking for a politically advantageous marriage," Mira adds. "He's very handsome. And very unpleasant."
Elira bares her teeth. "She's not shopping my fiancée like a sword at market. Next."
"Countess Merien," Seraphine reads. " 'Would be delighted to arrange a small gathering with other young ladies gifted in magic, to discuss the burdens of power and the constraints of womanhood.'"
"That sounds…nice?" I say.
Elira grimaces. "Merien's 'small gatherings' turn into interrogation pits. They put you in the center and never let you leave."
"She's less dangerous than Darielle," Lyriel muses. "But she likes to collect curiosities. Fia would end up a conversation piece."
Mira frowns. "She did send healing herbs when Fia collapsed in spring," she says. "That was kind."
"She also included a note that said 'Do not let her overexert that fragile vessel of hers or the empire will weep,'" Lyriel retorts. "Backhanded kindness."
"Pass for now," Seraphine decides, setting it aside.
The pile of "nope" grows.
Several invitations are from foreign envoys with too-smooth wording. Those go into a separate, even more cursed stack.
"Are we rejecting everyone?" I ask. "Because that seems…unsustainable."
Mira looks guilty. "We're trying not to isolate you," she says. "But tea parties can be…dangerous."
"They're just…social events," I say. "How bad can they ah"
Memories surface: from the game, not my own, but vivid nonetheless. Tea parties where a single misstep cost you ten affection points. Conversations laden with subtext. Delicate porcelain cups hiding deadly poison in side routes.
"Actually," I amend, "yeah, never mind."
Lyriel picks up a smaller envelope with silver edging.
"Hmm," she says. "From the Arcane Circle."
My interest piques. "The research mages?"
"Some of them," she says. "They want to 'discuss unusual mana phenomena over tea.'"
"That's you," Elira says. "You're the unusual phenomenon."
"Their tower is heavily warded," Lyriel muses. "Politically neutral. And I have… some influence with them."
Seraphine gives her a sidelong look. "Is this where you fled to as a teenager when you didn't want to attend balls?"
Lyriel sips her tea. "I can neither confirm nor deny that tower sleepovers with my fellow nerds were more fun than letting great-aunts pinch my cheeks."
Mira giggles.
"So that one might be okay?" I ask.
"With chaperones," Seraphine says automatically.
"You mean with you," Elira says.
"And you," Seraphine retorts. "I'm not leaving our walking magical singularity alone with experimental mages."
"I'm right here," I say for the third time.
They keep going.
Some invites are clearly just noble girls wanting to gush about romance and ask me indecently personal questions about four public proposals. Those go on a "maybe" stack that looks suspiciously like it'll end up as a "group event at the palace where we can control everything."
Finally, we're down to three "safe-ish" ones:
– Princess Elenora's teddy bear tea.– The Arcane Circle's mana-discussion tea.– A quiet invitation from an older duchess known for neutrality and cake.
Seraphine taps the last one. "Duchess Linne," she says. "She kept me from falling apart the first time I sat the council alone. She's…trustworthy."
Mira nods. "Her tea cakes are blessed by three separate kitchen saints."
"That…sounds like nonsense," I say.
"It's absolutely nonsense," Lyriel says. "But they're very good cakes."
"I vote we accept that one," Elira says. "Purely for cake."
"And the princess's," Mira adds quickly. "She'll be devastated if we don't."
"The Arcane Circle can wait one cycle," Lyriel says. "I want more time to adjust Fia's stabilizing wards before I let her near anyone who thinks 'let's poke the Fire Genre anomaly' is a good idea."
"Agreed," Seraphine says.
She starts organizing the three chosen envelopes like they're battle plans.
I watch them for a moment, warmth spreading in my chest under the faint ache that never quite leaves.
"You know," I say, "in a normal otome game, this would be where the protagonist picks who to spend the afternoon with."
"We're just efficient," Elira says. "We picked for you."
"Against my will," I say.
She grins. "You love it."
"I love you," I correct. "The overprotectiveness is negotiable."
Four sets of ears turn pink to varying degrees.
The HUD chooses that moment to throw up another helpful note.
NEW SUBSYSTEM: OVERPROTECTIVE GIRLFRIEND FILTER™All social invitations must now pass:– Political Risk Check (Seraphine)– Violence Risk Check (Elira)– Arcane Risk Check (Lyriel)– Emotional Risk Check (Mira)
Side Effect: You will never be alone again. Ever.
I sigh into my cup.
By late afternoon, the invitations have been sorted, responses drafted (by Seraphine, with lots of polite phrasing that means "absolutely not"), and I've been moved to the sitting couch by the window as a treat.
Mira sits close enough that our shoulders touch, knitting again. Elira sprawls on the opposite couch like a guard dog disguised as a disaster. Lyriel has colonized the writing desk. Seraphine, currently in "princess on a break" mode, is half-reading, half-watching me.
This is apparently my new normal.
A maid appears at the door and bows.
"Your Highness, Lady Fiametta," she says. "A message from the Emperor's office. Regarding the tea invitations."
Seraphine takes the parchment, scans it, and sighs.
"…of course," she mutters.
"What?" I ask.
She passes it to me.
By imperial decree, any social gathering involving Lady Fiametta von Ardentis– must include at least one designated protective party,– must have palace-approved tasters if food is served,– must be registered with the Fire Genre Mitigation Committee,– and must be scheduled so as not to interfere with prescribed rest.
Signed,Emperor Albrecht,(and, in different ink) Helena von Ardentis
There is a tiny doodle near the bottom that looks suspiciously like my mother's handwriting saying: Take breaks or I'll come back.
"I have a committee?" I complain.
"The Fire Genre Mitigation Committee is just my father, your parents, and three very exhausted civil servants," Seraphine says. "But yes."
Elira laughs. "This is amazing."
"This is excessive," I say.
"It's love," Mira says softly.
I look down at the decree again.
In the corner, the system quietly highlights a line:
must be registered with the Fire Genre Mitigation Committee
And adds, in tiny letters only I can see:
(We both know you'll break this at some point.)
"Watch me," I mutter.
"What?" Lyriel asks.
"Nothing."
My gaze drifts to the window.
Outside, the city is bright in the late sun. Somewhere out there are noble ladies planning outfits and conversation topics. Somewhere there is a little princess setting up a tea party with too many stuffed animals. Somewhere, in a tower, mages are arguing about my existence over cold coffee.
The world feels…big. And very, very interested in me.
"I don't want you to lock me away," I say suddenly.
Four heads turn toward me.
"I know I'm fragile," I continue, before they can object. "I know I collapse. I know tea parties can turn into boss battles. But I don't want to spend whatever time I have just…in this room. Or just with you."
Seraphine's face softens; pain flickers there.
"We don't want to smother you," she says quietly. "We just…can't bear the thought of losing you because we let you walk into a trap we could have stopped."
"I get that," I say. "I really do. But if this is all real" my voice hitches a little, "—if all of you are real, and not just scripted NPCs, then I want to see that world. Talk to its people. Drink their tea. Maybe even get judged by their old ladies."
Elira grimaces, but nods slowly. "So what do you want?" she asks. "Specifically."
I take a breath.
"I want to go to Princess Elenora's tea," I say. "With you there, yes. Fine. I'm not fighting an eight-year-old alone."
Seraphine snorts softly.
"I want to go to Duchess Linne's," I continue. "Because cake. And because I want to hear what an older noblewoman thinks when she looks at me and sees…all this."
I gesture vaguely at my Fire Genre life.
"And," I add, "I want us to eventually go to the Arcane Circle. Not because it's safe. Because it isn't. But because if anyone can help us figure out what 'reality bleed-through' means, it's them."
Lyriel's eyes sharpen. "I knew I liked you," she murmurs.
Mira squeezes my hand.
"And I want," I finish, "to be the one who chooses which risks I take. With your advice. With your protection. But not as your…glass doll."
Silence stretches.
Then Seraphine steps closer, kneels by my chair, and takes both my hands.
"Fia," she says, looking up at me with eyes like stormlight. "You are not a doll. You are the wildfire that keeps me from freezing. I will never be able to stop worrying that a gust of fate will blow you out."
She swallows.
"But I love you too much to put you under a glass." A faint, crooked smile. "That would only make you burn hotter to escape."
"Obviously," I say.
"So," she says, "we compromise. You choose. We vet. You go. We hover. You cough blood. Mira panic-heals. Lyriel takes notes. Elira threatens anyone who looks at you wrong. We all come home."
"That sounds about right," Elira says.
Mira nods vigorously. "I can handle panic-healing."
Lyriel lifts her cup. "To scientifically irresponsible lifestyles."
My eyes sting.
"Okay," I say, voice thick. "Okay."
The HUD pings one more time.
NEW PARTY RULE UNLOCKED: PROTECTIVE RADIUS– You may attend tea parties and social events.– A minimum of two overprotective girlfriends will be within 5 meters at all times.– Fire Genre anomalies will be logged for future hacking.
Note: There is no rule against falling more in love.
I laugh.
"Fine," I say. "Send the replies. Schedule the teas. Register me with the Mitigation Committee. Let's do this."
Mira beams.
Seraphine squeezes my hands and stands. "I'll have the steward send formal acceptances," she says. "And a list of rules to Duchess Linne about what topics are off-limits."
"hm 'My impending doom' is probably top of the list," I say.
"Exactly," Lyriel says smoothly.
Elira stretches. "I'll start sharpening my polite smile," she says. "And my not-polite sword."
"You're not bringing a sword to a tea party," Seraphine says.
Elira grins. "You say that now."
Mira leans against my shoulder, warm and soft.
"You're excited," she whispers.
I realize I am.
Terrified, yes. Ill, still. But under that, there's a buzz I recognize from my old life: the thrill of unlocking new events, new routes, new CGs.
Only this time, I'm not clicking menu options alone in the dark. I'm walking into them surrounded by people who will flip tables for me.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I kind of am."
Outside, the sun glints off a distant tower. Somewhere, a little princess carefully arranges her stuffed bears and instructs the servants to bring the good cookies.
And high above it all, barely visible, a faint shimmer ripples through the sky like transparent flame.
The FIRE parameter ticks up again.
And for once, I'm not just bracing.
I'm ready.