The searing headache was a familiar harbinger, a cruel reminder of the life slipping away. I remembered the sterile hospital room, the hushed whispers of doctors, the tear-streaked faces of my family. I remembered the cold, the darkness, the cessation of breath. I had died.

But then, a jolt. A heavy, unfamiliar body, a hazy mind. As I stirred, the strange stiffness of my limbs, the unfamiliar lace of my gown, and the sheer opulence of the room assaulted my senses. This wasn't the hospital. This wasn't my room. A foreign voice, clear as a bell, pierced the lingering fog.

"My lady, are you all right?"

'My lady?' The title felt absurd, alien. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the grand, chandelier-lit chamber. A young girl in a crisp maid's uniform stood anxiously beside the bed. Her features were distinctly foreign, yet her words were perfectly understandable. My mind reeled.

"Bring me a mirror," I managed, the words feeling clumsy on an unaccustomed tongue. The maid hesitated, her face etched with a mixture of fear and confusion, before reluctantly fetching a large, ornate mirror. As my reflection solidified, a gasp escaped me. It wasn't my face. It was round, buried in fat, framed by disheveled brown hair. A face I vaguely recognized from an onslaught of recent, painful memories. This was Sylvia Atlante. The 'ugly duckling' of a ducal family, destined for a lonely, tragic end. And now, I was her.