The next morning, Seraphine—or rather, Lissa in Seraphine's body—stepped out of her room looking like she had walked straight out of a royal portrait.
Her blonde hair was swept up into a perfect, glimmering style. Her red eyes, sharp and vivid, gave off an intimidating aura that could command an entire ballroom. The dress was a masterpiece—layers of silk and lace in deep crimson, fitted perfectly to her figure.
She looked every bit the dignified duchess.
Until she moved.
Because the moment she started walking down the hall, she moved like… a street thug trying not to trip over a wedding gown. Her steps were wide, her shoulders loose, and she grumbled under her breath about how "these medieval torture devices" could even be called dresses.
Her maids, who once trembled at the sight of the real Seraphine, now exchanged baffled looks. The terrifying duchess they feared was gone; in her place was a gorgeous woman stomping around like she was heading to a boxing match.
By the time she reached the breakfast table, Lissa's face was twisted in silent agony. She sat, or rather flopped, into the chair and muttered under her breath,
"Women back then survived this? I can't even breathe right now…"
Just as she reached for her fork, her ridiculous high heels betrayed her. Her ankle wobbled, her chair tilted, and she was seconds away from humiliating herself—
—when a hand caught her waist.
Firm, steady, warm.
She blinked down to find Elric kneeling on one knee before her, holding her steady like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand still rested gently against her side as he looked down to check her foot.
Lissa froze.
In that moment, she wasn't thinking about dresses, or breathing problems, or medieval breakfast etiquette. She was thinking, Oh my god, he looks like a prince.
Up close, she could see the sharp line of his jaw, his neatly combed black hair, and the way his brown eyes held that calm, steady focus. The man didn't look like a servant—he looked like he belonged on the cover of some romance novel.
"Are you injured, my lady?" Elric asked softly, brushing his fingers lightly against her foot. "If you'd like, I can arrange for simpler shoes, without heels."
Still flustered, Lissa exhaled and tried to sound casual.
"Yeah… sure. Do that."
He gave a small nod and ordered a maid to fetch them. Then, instead of walking away, he lingered.
Lissa looked at him and blurted, "What are you doing? Sit down and eat, man."
She said it the way she used to talk to her old friends—street tone and all.
To her surprise, Elric actually obeyed, taking the seat beside her. As they ate, he spoke between polite bites, "Are you sure you wish to go to the church today? With your authority, you could simply summon the priest instead."
"Nope," Lissa replied, tearing into her bread like she hadn't seen food in a week. "I wanna see that place myself."
He didn't push further. But she couldn't help noticing the contrast— Elric ate like a refined noble, while she chewed like she was in a tavern.Sera trying to copy him mid-bite only made her choke a little, earning a raised eyebrow from Elric.
A few moments later, the maid returned with the new shoes. Elric knelt again to help her put them on, his touch so careful it made her heart jump twice in her chest.
When they stepped outside, a beautiful, gilded carriage awaited them. Lissa's first thought was, It's nice… but a sports car is still better.
Elric took her hand to help her in, and she noticed—again—how absurdly soft his hands were compared to her own from her past life.
They sat, Elric across from her, the wheels beginning to turn as they set off toward the church.
The carriage slowed to a stop, the soft jolt pulling Seraphine from her thoughts. Elric was already outside, offering his hand.
She placed her gloved fingers in his palm, and he guided her down with practiced elegance. The moment her boots touched the stone path, her eyes lifted—and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
Before her stood a structure that could rival the palaces of kings.
The church was not the modest building she had pictured—it was a fortress of white marble, its towering spires reaching into the clouds. Rows of sculpted angels lined the grand façade, and the air was thick with the fragrance of fresh lilies blooming in manicured gardens.
It was beautiful. Unyielding. Almost holy.
And yet, in the back of her mind, a quiet unease stirred. Even with all this purity on the outside… there's rot hidden somewhere in the walls.
They began walking toward the entrance. As they passed, nuns and children in simple linen clothes stopped what they were doing. The moment they caught sight of her, their faces changed—soft expressions turning to fear. Small hands clutched at sleeves, and a few children hid behind the skirts of the nuns.
Seraphine's brow tightened. The real Seraphine… was here before. What did she do to make them look at her like this?
Her steps faltered when she saw a woman sitting on a bench near the side garden. The woman's hands were wrapped in clean white bandages, both of them… as though she had lost everything from the wrists down.
Their eyes met. Recognition sparked in the woman's gaze, followed instantly by terror. She stood abruptly—nearly stumbling—and fled toward the far corner of the garden without a word.
Seraphine froze. That's… the maid. The one she— Her thoughts knotted in disbelief. What could make the real Seraphine cut off both of her hands?
She turned slightly, her voice low but firm.
"Elric."
"That maid, why did i cut off her hands?"
He stopped at her side, his usual composure dimmed by a hint of hesitation.
"I want to know," she said. "Everything. Even if you think I'm… her. Or not her. I'm living in this body now. I need to know."
Elric exhaled, slow and weighted, as if drawing the memory from somewhere unpleasant. His eyes dropped for a moment before meeting hers again. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than usual—careful, almost reluctant.
"…It was because she touched me," he said simply.
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"She brushed my hand," Elric continued. "The real Seraphine… didn't tolerate anyone touching me. Not even a single strand of my hair."
Shock rippled through her, and a strange heat coiled in her chest. She leaned in slightly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"…Why?"
Before he could answer, the massive church doors creaked open. A middle-aged man in a rich burgundy robe stepped out, bowing deeply.
"Your Grace," he said, voice smooth but with an edge of surprise. "Had we known of your visit, we would have made proper preparations."
Seraphine's gaze was sharp, her tone unwavering.
"Where is the priest with the white beard?"
The man blinked. "Sir Oron, Your Grace?"
Her eyes narrowed. So that's his name…
"He is not here," the man said, clasping his hands. "He departed early this morning for priestly duties in another city. He will return in… two weeks' time."
A quiet sigh escaped her. Two weeks… and he's off doing 'priest duties,' huh?
"Let me in," she said after a beat. "I want to see the inside of this church."
For the briefest second, his expression tightened—an involuntary flicker of discomfort—but he forced a smile. "Of course, Your Grace. Please… follow me."