Celia lay sprawled in the grass, face down, arms out, her toast-crumb dignity scattered around her like battlefield debris.
And then... footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Purposeful.
She barely had time to groan before a shadow fell over her.
"Are you alright?"
The voice was smooth. Polite. Refined in the way that only terrifyingly perfect people could manage.
Celia lifted her head with the effort of a dying soldier. Her cheek was still pressed against the dirt when she saw them — polished boots, not a speck of dust in sight, and a gloved hand reaching down to her.
She blinked.
Then looked up.
Then froze.
Seraphina Noir stood before her, sunlight catching on the silver threads of her dark academy uniform, raven curls framing a face that looked like it belonged in a royal painting.
She was beautiful.
She was graceful.
She was doomed.
And Celia, who had just eaten dirt in front of her, realized one horrifying thing:
This was Seraphina Noir.
The main villainess of Legacy of the Wand and Crown.
The cold-blooded noble daughter. The tragic antagonist. The girl who would go toe-to-toe with the story's heroine in an explosive duel of ideals and magic — and lose everything.
Why is she already here?! Celia screamed internally. She's not supposed to show up until the academy arc!
And then—
Oh no. Oh no no no.
How could I forget? Seraphina's tutor... was Valeria Duskvale!
She didn't just trip in front of the novel's final boss.
She tripped in front of the final boss and her sword-wielding mentor-slash-gym-coach-from-the-underworld.
"I…" Celia gurgled, still stuck between shock and grass. "Hi."
"I'm Seraphina Noir," the girl said gently, her smile soft but composed. "You must be Lady Celia Averna."
No, I must be dying, Celia thought.
Her mind spiraled — past, present, future, death flags, dramatic irony, plot twists. It all collided in one giant mental pile-up.
Maybe if I close my eyes I'll respawn back in bed, she thought desperately.
And Seraphina just kept standing there, hand outstretched, as if Celia hadn't just crash-landed in front of her like a goose shot from a cannon.
Celia stared at the outstretched hand.
She had two options:
1. Accept it with grace, like a dignified noble lady.
2. Die on the spot from secondhand embarrassment.
Somehow, option one won.
With great effort — and despite every cell in her body screaming to remain fused with the ground — Celia reached up and took Seraphina's hand.
The grip was firm. Warm. Elegant.
Seraphina helped her to her feet with the kind of ease that made Celia feel like a particularly clumsy cat being lifted from a windowsill.
Celia quickly brushed at her robes and smoothed back her hair, trying to salvage what little composure she had left.
Miss Clarimond would be proud, she thought, raising her chin ever so slightly. I did not faceplant a second time. I accepted help gracefully. I made eye contact. This counts as progress.
"Thank you," she said, trying not to wheeze mid-sentence.
Seraphina offered a small smile. "You're welcome. It's… quite the morning workout, isn't it?"
Celia blinked. Was that a hint of amusement in her voice?
"Oh, yes," she managed, voice high-pitched with effort. "Very invigorating. Builds—uh—stamina. And humility."
From the tree's shade, Mariette discreetly raised her tiny flag again. It now read:
"Grace Under Pressure!"
Celia mentally screamed.
Then—
"I see you're still breathing. Excellent," said a voice right beside her.
Celia jumped a full inch off the ground. Mariette had appeared silently at her side, holding a fresh hand towel and an encouraging smile.
"MARIE," Celia hissed. "How—when—?!"
"I walked over," Mariette replied calmly. "While you were busy drowning in dignity."
Celia groaned into the towel as Mariette dabbed at her sweat-soaked forehead with clinical precision.
And just when Celia thought the embarrassment couldn't get any worse, her brain finally caught up.
Wait… wait—Seraphina Noir. Seraphina. Noir. THE Seraphina Noir. The main villainess of Legacy of the Wand and Crown. The girl who—who—
Her eyes slowly darted back to the black-haired girl still standing beside her, effortlessly regal, still watching her with polite interest.
Oh right, Celia thought, mind spiraling, How could I forget that Seraphina Noir's tutor was Valeria Duskvale. Of course. Of course she's here. Why wouldn't the universe add insult to injury.
She was not ready.
Not for a villainess.
Not for a handshake.
And certainly not for how pretty she looked in that perfectly tailored coat.
Seraphina glanced toward the training grounds where Valeria Duskvale stood like a statue carved from night itself, arms folded, gaze sharp.
"I hope I didn't interrupt anything," she said, voice polite and even — but something about the way she said it made Celia feel like her entire existence had, in fact, been an interruption.
"No! I mean—yes. I mean—" Celia waved her arms, nearly smacking Mariette in the face. "I was already finished… collapsing."
"You were still on lap eighty-seven," Mariette helpfully added, sidestepping the flailing.
Seraphina tilted her head. "Only eighty-seven?"
Celia coughed. "Character building."
For a moment, Seraphina simply regarded her — and Celia wasn't sure if she was being judged, evaluated, or politely mourned. Probably all three.
Then Seraphina's expression softened — barely. The faintest curve of a smile.
"I think I'll enjoy training here," she said. Her tone was light, but her eyes gleamed with the same faint menace as a sword being drawn very slowly. "It seems… lively."
Celia's brain short-circuited.
Enjoy? Enjoy?! This place is a noble bootcamp disguised as a mansion!
"I'm… glad to hear that," Celia managed, voice cracking like cheap porcelain.
Mariette, now brushing invisible dust from Celia's shoulder, leaned in with a whisper. "You're doing great."
"I'm combusting."
"No flames yet."
Celia took a breath. She needed to regain control of the conversation — or at least stop actively dissolving in it.
"So… um," she tried, "What brings you here? I mean, besides the, uh, legendary swordswoman and high-stakes physical trauma?"
Seraphina blinked once, politely. "Dame Valeria is my tutor. My father requested I train here for a while — he believes isolation sharpens discipline."
Celia internally screamed. Oh great. She's not just visiting. She's staying.
"Oh," she said aloud. "How lovely."
Mariette handed her a water flask before she could faint dramatically.
Valeria, from across the field, clapped once. It echoed like thunder.
Seraphina turned toward her. "Excuse me. It seems she's calling."
Celia nodded, weakly. "Yes, please, don't keep the grim reaper waiting."
Seraphina walked away with perfect posture and zero dirt stains, like a painting come to life.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Celia grabbed Mariette's sleeve.
"She's staying," she whispered. "She's living here."
Mariette nodded serenely. "So it seems."
"Marie," Celia said, deadly serious, "I need a strategic plan, a confidence-training course, and possibly a hole to crawl into."
Mariette handed her another towel. "We'll start with hydration."
Celia took it, looked at the ground she'd just been flattened against, and sighed.
"…I should've stayed in the dirt."