Elara had completely cut ties with the earlier princess.
Whoever had once possessed this body had left nothing behind—no mories, no habits, not even fragnts of emotion. It was as though the forr owner had vanished entirely. Elara did not know what kind of personality the previous princess had. Whether she was gentle or cruel, impulsive or restrained, sincere or calculating.
So Elara understood she had only one choice.
She would have to create herself anew.
The problem, however, lay deeper than re imitation. Elara could not feel emotions—not in the way they were ant to be felt. Right and wrong, practical and impractical—she could distinguish between them logically, but there was no emotional pull attached to any of it. She knew that no matter how skilled a copycat she beca, perfectly recreating the forr princess—especially her emotions—was sothing completely beyond her reach.
She had tried searching for answers in the diary.
Only a few pages. Sparse words. Formal thoughts. Nothing that described how the previous princess behaved when she was overwheld, afraid, or happy. Nothing that revealed how she reacted when emotions took over.
That was when Elara discarded the idea altogether.
There was no point pretending to be soone she could never understand.
If this path led to death—or sothing equally inevitable—then she would simply play along until the end arrived. Calmly. Almost carelessly.
In this world, especially within rich and noble families, Elara knew one thing to be true: the ones who knew the most were always the servants. They saw everything. Heard everything.
Extracting information from a maid would not be difficult.
She noted this quietly as she sat down, posture composed, expression unreadable.
"Where should I start?" Elara asked.
"Your Highness—"
The words made her pause.
Elara lifted her gaze slowly. Then, in a serious, asured tone, she said,
"It seems you’re accustod to calling my lady... not Your Highness. That’s quite different."
The maid imdiately lowered her head.
But Elara had already gained sothing valuable.
No matter the circumstances, a princess—royal blood—was always addressed as Your Highness. Anything else was reserved for noblewon or wealthy ladies, not soone of royal lineage.
So this body may have belonged to a princess.
But the way others addressed her told a far more complicated story.
And Elara never ignored details like that.
The maid swallowed. "Where should I start, my la—Your Highness?"
Elara’s eyes sharpened.
"My what?"
The maid froze.
"Your Highness, I—"
"You were going to say ’my lady.’"
Elara’s voice stayed calm, but it cut clean. "That’s not what you call a princess.is it"
The maid’s face went pale. "It’s... it’s habit in this wing. The head maid had ordered everyone and...."
Elara studied the servant in silence for several breaths.
Then she spoke.
"So tell ," she said calmly, "when did my father beco the head maid?"
The room seed to freeze.
The servant’s eyes widened in pure horror.
Before Elara could say another word, the woman dropped to her knees. Her body hit the floor hard enough to echo, and she imdiately bent forward, slamming her forehead against the cold stone.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
"Forgive —please forgive !" she sobbed, voice breaking apart.
Elara did not move.
"Stop," Elara said.
The servant froze, forehead pressed to the ground, shaking violently.
"Look at ," Elara ordered.
Slowly—terrified—the servant lifted her head.
Elara’s gaze was steady. Unemotional.
"Answer ," she continued. "How is it that soone of royal blood is addressed as my lady? Are there titles other than Your Highness allowed without the emperor’s explicit command?"
The servant’s lips trembled. Her breath ca in short, uneven gasps, as though the air itself was refusing to enter her lungs.
That was when Elara understood.
This woman wasn’t afraid of her.
She was afraid of the emperor.
That was why she had been trembling the mont his na was ntioned.
"Enough," Elara said at last. "Next question."
The servant stiffened like a pulled string.
"What is my na?"
Silence.
"My... my lady...?" the servant whispered, barely audible.
Elara lifted her gaze slowly.
"What," she repeated, "is my na?"
Strangely enough, this question troubled Elara as well.
Every docunt in the room. Every record. Even the diary.
They all carried the sa na.
Yu Liang.
It was not English. Chinese, most likely. Perhaps sothing else. But it was not hers.
Yet the emperor had called her Elara.
So which one was real?
Yu Liang... or Elara?
And then there was the surna.
Every royal child bore the na Blackwood.
Every single one.
Except her.
"My lady— I an, Your Highness," the servant corrected herself again, panic lacing her voice.
Again.
Elara felt sothing stir—not anger, not irritation. Just a blank awareness of absurdity, as though she were watching soone repeat the sa error while knowing it was wrong.
"Speak," Elara said.
The servant swallowed.
"The Fourth Empress—your mother, Your Highness. Her surna is Liang. When you were born, she asked His Majesty to place you under her surna. It was... granted."
Elara paused.
Understanding settled quietly.
"I see."
She lifted her gaze once more.
"And Elara?"
The servant’s shoulders shook.
"Elara Blackwood is the na His Majesty gave you."
Elara went completely still.
So the emperor himself had carried her na across worlds.
Coincidence felt unlikely.
The forr princess had lived under her mother’s surna, but Elara already knew she would not. She could barely pronounce Yu Liang correctly, let alone accept it as her identity.
And suddenly, the emperor’s distance made sense.
Lineage.
In every world, lineage mattered more than brilliance.
No ruler would favor a child who carried her mother’s surna instead of his own—no matter how gifted she was. Scientist. Experinter. Prodigy.
It was obvious.
Elara looked at the servant once more and reached a final conclusion.
This woman was useless.
Well-trained. Presentable. But weak.
Even now, my lady lingered on her lips—not a mistake, but a habit ford over years.
And habits, Elara knew, revealed exactly how she had been treated all this ti.
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