The kitchen was silent except for the hum of machines and the soft clink of metal against glass.
Viviana sat at the long dining table, her posture straight, her hands resting loosely in her lap. She watched everything—the way her mother's fingers trembled as she reached for plates, the hesitation in her father's steps, the careful distance everyone kept from her as if she might erupt without warning.
Food was placed before her.
Bread. Meat. Fruit. Something warm that smelled unfamiliar.
She stared at it.
"This," she said slowly, "is fuel?"
Her father nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes. You… you eat it."
She speared a small piece of food and lifted it to her mouth. The moment it touched her tongue, sensation exploded—salt, heat, texture. Her eyes widened just a fraction before she forced her expression back into neutrality.
So this was hunger's answer.
She chewed carefully, methodically, as though studying an enemy. When she swallowed, warmth spread through her chest, faint but undeniable.
"…Interesting," she murmured.
No one spoke.
She continued eating, slower now, more deliberate. Each bite grounded her further in this unfamiliar body. With every swallow, she felt the truth settle deeper into her bones.
This body needed maintenance.
Care.
Time.
Weakness.
When she finished, she pushed the plate away.
"This will suffice," she said.
Her mother flinched at the tone, but nodded quickly. "If you need more—"
"I won't," Viviana interrupted. "Excess is inefficient."
She stood, ignoring the way everyone tensed at the movement.
She turned toward the hallway. "I require rest. This body degrades without it."
No one stopped her this time.
Night came quickly.
Viviana lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep did not come easily. Every sound felt loud. Every breath felt… heavy. Time moved differently here—slow, dragging, unthreatening.
Her thoughts drifted despite her resistance.
Fire.
Ash.
Her parents' voices.
She clenched her jaw.
"I will not mourn," she whispered into the darkness. "Mourning weakens resolve."
Still, her chest ached.
When she finally slept, it was not peace that found her—but dreams.
She stood on the mountain again.
The wind screamed around her, flames curling at her feet like obedient serpents. The chain was gone. Power surged through her veins, intoxicating and absolute.
Below her, the world burned.
Not villages this time—but cities made of glass and steel. Towers collapsed as fire devoured them. The sky split open, red and furious.
She lifted her hand—
And it passed through flame.
Her power dissolved into smoke.
The white-haired woman stood behind her.
"You still don't understand," the woman said gently.
Viviana turned sharply. "Give it back."
"No."
"Then remove me from this body."
"No."
The woman's gaze softened. "You were never meant to live as destruction alone."
Viviana laughed bitterly. "Then you should have let me die."
The woman stepped closer. "You already did."
Viviana woke with a sharp inhale.
Dawn light spilled through the curtains.
Her body felt… different.
Heavier than yesterday.
Alive.
She sat up slowly.
Power still absent.
Chain still gone—but the seal remained, buried deeper than metal.
"…So this is the game you're playing," she murmured.
She stood, dressed herself in unfamiliar clothes, and walked toward the window. Outside, the world moved peacefully. Cars passed. People laughed. Life continued, ignorant of monsters and mountains.
Viviana watched them with unreadable eyes.
"Very well," she said quietly.
"If I am to live here…"
Her reflection stared back—young, human, vulnerable.
"…then I will learn this world."
Her lips curved, not in a smile, but in promise.
"And when my power returns," she added softly, "I will decide whether this world deserves mercy."
For the next two weeks, she did not leave.
Not once.
The curtains remained drawn. The lights stayed off. The world beyond the door ceased to exist.
Viviana lay on the bed most of the time, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths she did not need but was now forced to take. This body demanded rest. Demanded stillness. Demanded obedience to limits she had never known.
Weakness.
She tolerated it.
The only times she emerged were when her stomach betrayed her.
The first time, she thought it was an attack—an internal rupture, perhaps poison. The sound alone disturbed her.
She followed the noise down the hallway, ignoring the startled looks as the family froze mid-motion.
Food was placed in front of her.
She ate.
Later, the sound returned.
Again.
Then again.
By the fourth day, she stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and asked flatly, "Why does this body require fuel so often?"
Her mother hesitated. "People eat… three times a day."
Viviana stared at her.
"Three," she repeated.
"Yes," her father added quickly. "Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner."
Viviana processed this in silence.
"So humans structure their lives around consumption," she concluded. "I see."
From that day on, she appeared only three times—precisely, efficiently—ate without conversation, and returned to her room.
No greetings.
No explanations.
No acknowledgment of concern.
The family told themselves it was recovery.
Viviana called it containment.
On the fifteenth day, she called for Zef.
He came immediately.
He stood just inside the doorway, careful not to cross the threshold without invitation. He had learned, over the years, when silence was safer than speech.
"You will acquire books," Viviana said.
Zef blinked. "Books?"
"All of them."
"…All?"
"Every book that has been published within this civilization," she clarified. "Science. History. Medicine. Law. Philosophy. Engineering. Magic—if this world pretends such things do not exist, include mythology and theoretical studies."
Zef hesitated. "That's… that's a lot."
"Yes."
"…Why?"
Viviana finally looked at him directly.
"Because," she said, "I refuse to remain ignorant in a world that has already stripped me of power."
Zef studied her face—the calm, the focus, the unsettling certainty.
He nodded. "Alright."
And he did it.
Over the following days, boxes arrived endlessly. Books stacked against walls. Shelves were brought in. Tables replaced. The floor disappeared beneath knowledge.
Viviana's room transformed into an archive.
She read without pause.
She did not sleep when tired—she slept when the body forced her. She did not eat when hungry—she ate when the pain distracted her from comprehension.
She learned.
Language structures.
Human psychology.
Economic systems.
Biology—fragile, inefficient, fascinating.
Outside her door, the family whispered.
"She's reading all the time," her mother said.
"That's good," her father replied. "It means she's healing."
They told themselves this again and again.