Ren didn’t remember falling asleep.
One moment, she had been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing with the sheer absurdity of her situation, and the next, she was waking up to silence.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of dying embers in the wall sconces.
The air was cool, carrying the scent of stone, wax, and something vaguely metallic.
A faint shiver ran through her body—not from cold, but from the sheer unfamiliarity of it all.
She still wasn’t used to this body.
Everything about it felt off.
The weight of her hair against her back, the subtle tug of her horns, the unnatural smoothness of her skin.
Even the way her breathing sounded felt slightly different—lighter, softer.
She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her forehead.
She should go back to sleep.
She should stay put.
She should not be making impulsive decisions right now.
Ren swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The cold stone floor sent another shock through her system as she carefully stood, wincing at the slight wobble in her step.
It was weird.
She didn’t feel weak, but there was a disconnect—as if her body wasn’t fully hers yet.
Like wearing a pair of shoes that almost fit but pinched in strange places.
She took a cautious step forward.
Then another.
Then, heart hammering in her chest, she reached for the heavy wooden door.
It loomed over her, thick and imposing, as if silently warning her against whatever stupid decision she was about to make.
She hesitated.
Then, pressing her lips together, she gripped the handle and pushed.
The door creaked.
Ren froze.
The sound echoed in the silence, loud and accusing.
For a moment, she expected someone—Ozamas, a guard, anyone—to storm in and demand what the hell she was doing.
But nothing of such sorts happened.
***
The hall outside was empty.
She stepped forward, barefoot on cold stone.
The castle was eerily still.
The only sounds were the distant crackle of torches and the soft whisper of air moving through unseen corridors.
It wasn’t what she expected from a king’s fortress.
There were no lavish decorations, no intricate banners or stained-glass windows.
Just raw, unembellished stone and iron.
The walls were smooth but unadorned, the torches placed at precise intervals—efficient, practical, and nothing more.
Everything here was built for function, not beauty.
A fortress first, a home second.
She swallowed hard.
This wasn’t the domain of some power-hungry ruler reveling in excess.
This was a place built up and meant to endure through.
This was a stronghold.
Her stomach twisted.
She glanced back at the hall leading to her room.
She could still turn around.
She should turn around.
But instead, she pushed forward.
The corridor stretched ahead, leading her toward a wide staircase.
The steps spiraled downward in long, deliberate intervals, worn smooth by years of use.
The air was cooler here, tinged with a faint mineral scent.
At the bottom, an open passage led to a balcony.
The wind stirred.
Ren stepped through the archway—
And her breath caught.
The city stretched before her, bathed in the golden hues of a rising sun.
Dark, jagged rooftops layered together like the interwoven plates of armor.
Narrow streets twisted between them, forming a labyrinth of stone and iron.
Smoke curled from chimneys as the first signs of life stirred below.
And in the distance, the land rose into volcanic hills, their peaks glowing with rivers that wound through the terrain like fiery veins.
It was breathtaking.
For a moment, just a moment, the weight in her chest eased.
“Enjoying the view?”
Ren yelped.
She spun around so fast she nearly lost her balance.
Ozamas stood there, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway with a look of pure exasperation.
“You snuck out,” she accused.
Ren swallowed hard.
Ozamas stepped forward, looking her up and down like she was assessing a particularly frustrating recruit.
“Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?”
Though they were of similar stature.
The air of authority Ozamas carried made Ren feel considerably smaller.
Even more so when she spoke with her authoritative tone.
“I was just looking around!”
Ren said, trying to sound defiant but instead it came out more like a child caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
Ozamas clicked her tongue.
“Right. Looking around. In a fortress you know nothing about. Alone. At night.”
Ren huffed, “It’s not that dangerous.”
Ozamas tilted her head, expression eerily calm.
“Let’s see,” she mused, ticking off on her fingers.
“You could’ve fallen down the stairs. Gotten lost. Walked into the wrong room and been mistaken for an intruder. Wandered into the training grounds and been impaled. Or, my personal favorite, stumbled into a restricted area and gotten actually murdered.”
Ren paled.
Ozamas patted her shoulder, smirking. “Let’s go. You need to get dressed. You might catch a cold and what you are wearing is pretty much see through. ”
Ren instinctively clutched her chest at that comment.
Then realised what she did as Ozamas chuckled.
‘Why did I just do that?’
***
Ren glared at her reflection.
The dress was annoyingly nice.
Dark fabric, lined with intricate metallic accents, belts cinching in places that made it both stylish and strangely practical.
It had a high collar, layered skirts, and reinforced leather panels—somewhere between military formal wear and functional work attire.
She hated how much she liked it.
In her past life, she never had the knack for fashion, let alone the urge to crossdress.
Yet, now all of sudden she could tell what would go well with this.
‘Why do I suddenly know so much about women’s wear-’
As she chewed on that, Ozamas returned with two bowls of food.
“Breakfast,” Ozamas announced.
Ren turned, her stomach was demanding something to eat for so long, oh what she would do for something to eat….
As her eyes fell on the contents of the bowl–
She froze.
The thing in front of her could barely be called food.
A bowl of pale, barely-cooked broth sat before her, the unmistakable pink of raw pork floating in it.
The grains within were mushy, unappetizing, lifeless.
The steam that rose off the dish smelled wrong.
Ren swallowed.
She was starving.
But not that starving.
Ozamas sat across from her, watching expectantly.
Ren hesitated.
Then, with the slow dread of someone walking to their doom, she picked up a spoon.
She forced herself to take a bite.
The texture was wrong.
The taste was worse.
Warm, meaty regret slithered down her throat.
As the food entered her gullet, she could feel her will to live depart.
Ozamas hummed, pleased.
Ren coughed, barely holding back a gag.
She put her spoon down.
“This is…”
She wheezed.
“…A lot.”
Ozamas took a spoonful from her own bowl and ate.
She clicked her tongue and set the spoon down.
A spark of hope dazzled in Ren’s eyes.
And then Ozamas grabbed a nearby bowl of sugar—
And poured.
Ren watched in mute horror as an ungodly amount of sugar drowned the already inedible dish.
Ozamas stirred it.
Lifted a spoonful.
And ate.
Ren was too stunned to react.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Ozamas licked the spoon clean.
Ren felt her soul die a second time.
Ozamas met her gaze—and smiled.
Ozamas continued eating like this was normal, her sharp teeth glinting slightly as she finished the entire bowl.
When she finally set it down, she exhaled, satisfied.
Ren, trembling, looked back at her own bowl.
Her stomach growled.
Her soul screamed.
A single tear rolled down her cheek as she picked up the spoon.
And ate.