Prologue

Kyrish’s life ended abruptly on a rooftop. One moment, she was contemplating the vast cityscape, the next, she was plummeting towards the unforgiving concrete. A sickening thud, then…nothing. Or so she thought.

The twenty-two-year-old book enthusiast, known to her friends as Rhys, had expected pearly gates, a celestial choir, maybe a handsome angel. Instead, she found herself enveloped in a cacophony of unfamiliar voices, a blur of faces, and the overwhelming scent of antiseptic. A beautiful angel, her features slightly hazy through tear-filled eyes, cradled her.

"My child!" the angel sobbed, her voice a mournful melody.

Confusion warred with the lingering numbness of her fall. The snippets of conversation pierced through the haze: "The Empress's child is a girl!"… "It's not good"… "Why isn't the princess crying?"

Born? Born? Rhys, the aspiring screenwriter with a penchant for spicy ramen and SliceOfLice, had been reborn. Reborn as…Danesa.

A name, whispered like a benediction: Danesa Circe Archan. Then, chaos. The angel’s eyes fluttered closed, releasing her into the arms of a weeping maid.

"The Dear Empress!" A chorus of screams. "The Empress is gone."

Dead. Her mother, the Empress, was dead. And Danesa—Rhys—was alive. Alive and…a princess?

She was a tiny bundle of contradictions: gratitude for a life she hadn’t expected, terror at the unknown future. The maid’s gentle smile held a deep well of pity. Rhys' mind, however, was racing. This wasn't just a new life; it was a life utterly alien to her previous existence. No more late-night dramas, no more instant noodles, no more agonizing over screenplay deadlines. Just…this.

The door swung open, revealing a figure cloaked in chilling authority. "Greetings, Emperor!"

A cold, deep voice cut through the air: "Where is the child?"

The Emperor, a towering figure radiating an aura of icy power, finally met her gaze. His eyes, cold and assessing, stripped away her fragile newborn innocence. He removed the swaddling cloth, revealing her small form.

"A girl!" His eyes darkened, his grip tightening. A wince escaped her lips as he abruptly released her.

He thought she was a doll? The thought sparked a flicker of defiance, even within her tiny frame. Rhys, ever the sarcastic observer, couldn't help but think, This is way more dramatic than any C-drama I've ever seen.

"Oh god! Give pity to the child," a man—a physician, judging by his uniform—pleaded.

Then, the unthinkable. Emperor Harris, without warning, drew his sword and decapitated the physician. The room gasped.

"No one can tell me what to do," the Emperor declared, his voice devoid of remorse.

Rhys' tiny eyes widened. This wasn't just a new life; it was a life steeped in violence. The sheer absurdity of it all threatened to overwhelm her. She was Kyrish, reborn as a princess in a world where beheadings were apparently commonplace.

The Emperor's gaze fell upon her again, a chilling grin twisting his lips. "Want to be next?"

Terror seized her. She shook her head, a primal instinct of self-preservation. His brow furrowed.

"You weirdo!" he scoffed, sheathing his sword and stalking away. "I don't want to see that child again. If you have to kill her, do it."

He left her to the pitying gaze of the maids. Her mother, the Empress…a woman he seemed to have mourned not at all.

The name…Harris. Danesa Circe Archan. The title, the name…it was all too familiar.

A slow realization dawned. The Empire. The novel she'd been reading moments before her death. Could it be…? Was she…inside the book?

A wry smile touched her lips. Impossible, of course. But…perhaps not.

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