Her breath caught, and she fell from the back of the car with a sickening thud and the car didn't even stop but moved faster, escaping the realization that he just killed someone.
Thunder of pain clapped through her body, her head swirled, her vision turning blurry, staring at the night sky, "So this is the end, I didn't even have the chance to love someone." She said to herself bitterly.
Blood filled the pavement staining her earpiece that still plated the narrators voice, and it moved to her phone which was severely cracked but still displayed the comic characters.
When her blood touched her phone, her phone started malfunctioning, but the voices still played in her ears, she was dead but her eyes still opened.
Wails of siren's and the crowd surrounding the dead Thalia, the moment one of the nurses closed her eyes, her phone switched off and the voice stopped playing.
___________________
Thalia woke with a sharp intake of breath. The first thing she noticed was the softness beneath her. Not the thin mattress of her dorm bed. This bed cradled her, warm and impossibly comfortable, the sheets cool against her skin yet heavy in a way that felt…relaxing and expensive.
Her lashes fluttered open. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar.
No cracks. No peeling paint. Instead, carved patterns bloomed across pale wood, elegant and deliberate, catching the light of a chandelier she definitely did not own.
Her heart skipped. "What…?" Her voice came out hoarse.
She pushed herself upright too quickly, dizziness washing over her in a wave. Her hand brushed against fabric and she froze.
This wasn't her clothes. Her fingers curled into soft material, thin and flowing, slipping through her grip like water. She looked down.
A nightgown. Long. Ivory. Delicate lace tracing the neckline, the sleeves loose and old-fashioned. Ancient.
Her breath hitched.
"No. No, no, no." She shook her head, rubbing her eyes hard, as if she could scrub the scene away. "This isn't my room. I was....I was outside. There was a car. I hit my head." she then realized, "I am supposed to be dead. Right?" She questioned unbelievably.
Her temple throbbed faintly, as if mocking her. "So how did I get here?" she whispered, panic tightening her chest. "Who changed my clothes? Why am I in a nightgown? Why does this feel real?"
Her gaze darted around the room.
Tall windows draped in heavy curtains. Dark wooden furniture polished to a soft gleam. A vanity table cluttered with crystal bottles and hairpins instead of makeup wipes and chargers. Candles—not electric lights, sat melted and half-used.
"This is wrong," she murmured. "Everything is wrong."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet on the thick rug. Even the floor felt different.
Her breathing sped up.
"This is a dream," she reassured herself. "It has to be. I read too much. I listened too much. My brain just.....glitched."
But dreams didn't feel like this.
Dreams didn't smell faintly of lavender and old parchment. They didn't make the air feel heavy in her lungs.
Her eyes snagged on a tall mirror near the corner of the room.
Slowly, hesitantly, she stood and walked toward it, every step filled with dread she couldn't name. Her reflection came into view.
She stared. Blue eyes stared back. "She thought she reincarnated like the novels, but she was still Thalia."
The same shape, the same lips, the same faint mark near her brow she'd had since childhood.
"This… this is me," she whispered, lifting a trembling hand. The girl in the mirror mirrored her perfectly.
"But—how?"
Her pulse roared in her ears.
"What's going on?" Her voice cracked. "Why do I look exactly the same? Why didn't my face change?"
Her gaze dropped to the neckline of the gown, to the delicate hands that weren't hers, but were.
"No," she breathed. "This doesn't make sense."
Her eyes swept the room again, slower now, more observant.
The furniture wasn't just old, it was ancient, like the one they described in the regency and Victoria era.
Her stomach twisted. "This isn't my world," she said quietly. Then she saw it.
An envelope. It rested on a small stool beside the bed, pristine and untouched, sealed with dark red wax. Her name was written across it in an elegant script, not Thalia, but....
Her fingers shook as she picked it up. "No way," she whispered.
She tore it open.
The paper inside was thick, cream-colored, edged in gold.
Her eyes skimmed the words and then snapped back to reread them.
An invitation to the Grand Royal Ball, held by the Kingdom of Velkris, in honor of the Crown Prince. Her breath left her in a rush. The date sat boldly beneath it.
1820. Her vision blurred.
"Velkris…?" she whispered. Her hands fell limp at her sides. "No. No, absolutely not."
Her mind raced, thoughts crashing over one another.
"This—this isn't possible. Velkris is from the novel. This is from the book. I—"
"The book I read before I died." Her chest tightened painfully.
"I didn't just get into an accident," she said, voice trembling. "I didn't wake up somewhere random."
Realization slammed into her like ice water. "I went into the novel, as Caelith."
She staggered back, sitting heavily on the bed.
"But wait, this isn't how it happened," she muttered, flipping the letter over again as if it might change. "This isn't how Caelith saw the invitation. She took it from Royal guards, they were invited since they were among the most wealthy in the human circle."
Her brows knit together. "So does that mean…" Her throat went dry. "Am I before it? Before the ball?"
She looked at the date again. "Tomorrow," she whispered. "Tomorrow is when the ball starts." Her heart pounded harder.
"The palace was holding the ball for the Crown Prince," she said slowly, the memory surfacing all too clearly. "That's the turning point. That's when everything starts to go wrong."
She dropped the letter onto the bed and buried her face in her hands.
"How did this happen?" she whispered. "Why me?" Her gaze drifted back to the mirror. To her face.
Caelith's face was hers.
"…Why are we the same?" she asked quietly. "My face didn't change at all." Her lips parted as a new thought crept in—slow, unsettling.
"Caelith was beautiful as I read," she said softly.
Her chest tightened.
"And if we have the same face…" She swallowed. "…then that means I'm beautiful."
Was that what she was worried about? Beauty?