Rosalita Thérèse Heroux. An illegitimate child of Marquis Heroux, twenty-two years of age, and born to a woman with unknown origins. That was the framework of this particular character, her setting as a villainess in the tragic romance novel called Golden River Dreams. Designed to be a sacrifice for the true female lead, Aurore Laflamme, saintess of an empire that which opposed D'aureville's own.
No, it was more precise to call Rosalita by her rightful name. Jung Haeun, age twenty-four, and a university dropout. Hailing from an era of advanced technology and progressive value-systems, her sudden displacement in a world of different worldviews—in a book she had once read—thrusted her into a game of fantastical plights.
Astra had asked the gods before on what determined the transmigrations of these souls. Rebirth simply told her, “Humans only perceive what they want to perceive and what they can perceive. That, too, applies to death.”
A death that was swift, almost painless, and inconceivable only for the fact that it was truly accidental at its core—this was the quickest path of dying that they understood. The human senses didn’t allow for anything else, and had brought in the closest thing to how mortals recognised this covetable fate. To Haeun, it was a simple car accident.
Rosalita’s true self was a person who was favoured by the gods enough to be given a new chance at life. Of course, there was a Rosalita who met her fateful end, but what stood before Astra at this moment was a person whose purpose was to avert that.
And so in all the complex layers of a chosen one’s individuality, there was a single rule that Astra had always abided by whenever she shifted to a new book.
To stay where she was intended to and wish for their story’s finale. Achieving it never meant her presence was required, however.
“... Hello?”
The Conception shouldn’t have been this inaccurate in her placement. She should be back in the ballroom, seated in that quiet corner instead.
“You were lying unconscious on the ground when I saw you. Are you alright?” Rosalita’s voice was filled with concern.
It was disconcerting. After all, Astra could count in one hand the times she had directly interacted with the leads of the stories. Of all the times she incarnated as a being that could communicate well with them, she was hardly a contributor to their tales.
Then, a realisation dawned on Astra. If Rosalita was speaking to her, could this be a part of the new Conception?
“I…” Astra parted her lips to speak but was cut off by a man snickering from above them.
“Quite the sight you are right now, Rosy,” Duke Riviere’s eyes glinted with mirth. “Am I to assume this is a new tactic of yours?”
“If you were not planning on checking up on her yourself, then mind your own business, Armie.” Rosalita taunted him back without so much as a glance.
The Duke leaned farther out of the terrace, a very displeased look on his face. “You have become rather bold. If it were not for the—”
“Let’s get you fixed up,” Rosalita kindly held out a hand towards Astra, threats directed for her ears disregarded. “Your hair is a bit of a mess at the moment.”
Astra was pulled forward with the help of the other woman, dusted herself off, and quietly stared at the back of magenta hair. ‘It shouldn’t take long for The Reverends to return now,’ she thought.
While Rosalita guided her through the corridors of the palace, Astra thoughtfully examined her current situation. A Conception had just been executed not too long ago, bringing her back to the moments before the false explosions. Even more unusual was the location of her disconnected point, which shouldn’t have been under the balcony. This sudden change in detail couldn’t be interpreted as anything else but the gods’ will. Something had to be done for the balance of the story to maintain.
They were only in the first act of Rosalita’s story, too. Even if she had been doing things on her own, the probability of a butterfly effect taking place would be a mere 0.1%. This was because she, as the new protagonist, hadn’t accumulated enough power to alter the narratives as of yet. At this very moment, Rosalita’s attachment to this particular story was somehow weak. Astra’s Compass had indicated so.
So there posed a question—if not Rosalita, who would dare go against the laws of this universe?
“Ah, am I boring you?”
Astra snapped out of her contemplation and found themselves in a parlour.
“Forgive me, I was just lost in my thoughts,” she attempted to smile but it probably came out as unnatural. No matter, because Astra knew every bit of her actions were just filler content meant for the female lead to be the center of attention.
‘Duke Riviere didn’t seem to follow us,’ she noted.
“I see,” Rosalita returned her smile. “Come, sit here. I will redo your hair for you.”
She gestured towards a velvet settee in the middle of the room. A wooden table lay before it, cluttered with a bundle of parchments bound with thin ropes, some rolled and some stacked. Her gaze landed on an intricately shaped diagram from the pile, glowing intermittently.
“I appreciate this, Lady Heroux.” Astra took her eyes off the strange collection of papers, and sat on the furniture with a better grasp of the situation.
A sense of control had found its way back to her, after noticing the magical rune on that piece of paper. She had guessed right, then. The arrangement of this scene would be ideal enough to help tilt back the balance. It was just up to her now.
The magenta-haired woman began removing the clasps decorating Astra’s head. “You know who I am,” it was a firm observation, almost taken aback.
“You are quite famous among social circles, my Lady,” Astra courteously replied.
Before Haeun had dominated Rosalita’s body, she had been described as a rather introverted character with an affinity for the enigmatic. It was only inevitable for high society to talk when the Marquis’ only daughter suddenly decided to be more active one day, especially so in bizarre ways that left all the good and bad kinds of impressions.
And what better way to incite the protagonist’s nature than laying out their past choices for them? Insightful as she was to Rosalita’s conditions in this world, Astra could only find this to be the better option in order for that 0.1% chance to take flight. This was the purpose of her existence, after all.
Rosalita hummed in interest, but with Astra’s newfound attentiveness—a not so, yet quite, familiar wariness from the few times she had been placed in similar positions of being a bridge to something bigger—she perceived it to be a sound that revealed doubt. They were on the right track.
“I believe we have not met yet,” Rosalita gently combed through the locks of Astra’s hair, tone different from before. It wasn’t difficult to pick up, but it made her wonder. “May I ask for your name?”
“Ah, no, forgive me for not introducing myself earlier, my Lady. I am Fleur Beaumont, daughter of Baroness Beaumont.”
The hands tangled in her hair momentarily stilled. “Beaumont? The personal tailoress of the former Duchess Riviere?”
“Indeed, my mother used to work for the former Duchess Riviere.”
Of course, there was some fabrication to that truth. While Baroness Beaumont truly existed, Astra’s relation to her did not. A determinant of her creation as Fleur was due to the former Duchess Riviere in question, who just so happened to be the current Duke’s grandmother. The closer Astra was to the main leads, the more the narrative would be enjoyable to its readers.
Astra didn’t need to know of the absolute details, but even she was aware that the gods would slightly warp the perceptions of every character, lest they start to notice irregularities that were unimportant to the story.
“I encountered your mother at a tea party once, with the former Duchess. It was quite delightful to hear about her personal life and family, as you know your mother to be so well reserved,” Astra felt the rearrangement of her hair pins around her head. “She was the loveliest person I have met.”
“I thank you on my mother’s behalf. That is high praise from the Lady.”
“Do you want to hear something interesting?”
Fastening the last pin across Astra’s hair, Rosalita’s fingers moved down to grip at the space where her neck and shoulder met. Before Astra could shift around the settee, something icy and metallic kissed her collarbones.
“Baroness Beaumont was executed for murdering her only child.”
With a sudden air of hostility, the older woman spoke.
“Who are you?”
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