The first thing she felt upon waking was pain. Not the sharp, tearing kind she was used to—but something worse.
A thousand needlepoints of soreness embedded in her skin. The ache of a body unused to moving. Of a girl who had nearly died.
Samara—or rather, Sam trapped in her skin—groaned as sunlight crept through the silk-curtained window.
“This body… is a battlefield,” she muttered, attempting to sit up.
Something shifted against her chest. She looked down and glared. “Boobs. Of course.”
Her kimono slipped open slightly, revealing skin not her own—and the markings that had become part of her.
Fire inked into her right arm in curling, elegant patterns—so flawless, so deliberate, it made her skin prickle. There was something unnerving about how perfect they were, how naturally they followed the contours of her muscles like they had always belonged there. She didn’t understand it. But something about them felt… too right. Too intentional. Like they were waiting for her to catch up to whatever they already knew. Water flowed in silver over her left. A sun and moon glowed like twin brands across her collarbones.
He hadn't imagined them.
They weren’t painted.
They were hers.
> “Cursed,” someone had whispered outside her door yesterday.
> “Too beautiful to be blessed.”
Sam’s lips curled.
“They should be afraid.
---
**A Different Girl**
The change didn’t go unnoticed. The Samara they remembered never spoke unless spoken to. Her steps were silent, graceful. She folded her hands even when she was alone.
Now, she swore under her breath, nearly tripped over the edge of her mattress trying to stand, and grumbled about bandages being folded the wrong way. She accidentally slammed her elbow into a screen door and muttered something about "room geometry." A servant offered to dress her—Samara nearly shrieked and chased them out with a comb.
The head maid whispered, “She’s... different.”
“More like possessed,” another muttered.
But none dared say it aloud. Because this Samara—awkward, brash, clumsy—also met their eyes without flinching.
And that was terrifying.”
---
**The Awakening Ceremony**
Two days later, Samara was paraded into the Grand Hall like a relic unearthed from myth. She still moved like a stranger in her skin—every step cautious, every muscle unfamiliar. As she approached the crystal, she accidentally stepped too wide, nearly knocking over the hem of her own robe. One of the noblewomen gasped, clearly scandalized. Samara caught herself and muttered something under her breath—something about game controls and physics—which only drew more curious stares. She straightened, adjusted her shoulders too roughly, then saluted the High Mage before realizing no one else had done the same. Murmurs broke out along the walls.
Golden banners hung from the vaulted ceiling. The nobility stood lined along the sides, eyes sharp and judging. No one cheered.
At the center stood the **Mana Crystal**—an ancient artifact bound to the fate of the royal family.
The High Mage, cloaked in sapphire and dust, raised a hand. “Place your palm on the crystal.”
Samara did as told.
The air shifted.
Flame burst first—fierce and consuming.
Then came water—calm, but crushing.
Wind howled next. Earth followed, rumbling beneath their feet.
The hall erupted in gasps.
“Divine-tier…” someone murmured. “She’s divine-tier!”
The scroll descended slowly. Glowing. Whispering.
> **Class: BLACKSMITH.**
The silence snapped.
Laughter.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
A noblewoman choked on her wine.
“All that power—for *that*?”
The Emperor remained expressionless. “Even hammers can be sharpened.”
Samara kept her face calm. But her fingers curled inward, nails digging into her palm.
She bowed, turned, and walked out.
Every step away from them felt like carrying a furnace.
---
**The Mirror**
She stood before the full-length mirror that night, alone. The palace halls outside her room had gone quiet, but behind the silence was tension—like the servants were holding their breath.
She loosened her robe and let it fall from her shoulders.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Then a gasp.
She turned slowly. Two maids froze in the open doorway, their eyes wide in horror. One dropped her towel. The other stepped back and bowed so quickly she nearly stumbled.
“She’s cursed,” one whispered to the other. “The tattoos are punishment. The gods marked her for taking her own life.”
Another voice joined—one of the older matrons, tight-lipped. “Don’t look. Don’t speak of it. The dead have no shame.”
Samara said nothing.
She stared at her reflection.
The tattoos wound across her skin in intricate silence. They didn’t glow. They didn’t pulse. They simply existed—permanent and undeniable.
Fire. Water. Sun and Moon. She traced the edges with her fingers.
They weren’t just beautiful. They carried a strange balance—a quiet pressure, like they were meant for something far greater than skin. Sam couldn’t place it, but standing there, half-dressed under moonlight, she felt it pressing down on her. Like the ink itself remembered a truth she hadn’t earned yet.
Of Samara’s end.
And Sam’s beginning.
“I didn’t come back to be your ghost,” she whispered. “I came back to be your reckoning.”
Her voice trembled, but her gaze did not.
“I’ll be the blade. Even if they only see the handle.””
---
**The Emperor’s Verdict**
“Train?” Emperor Tenchi repeated the word as if it offended him.
Samara stood before him in ceremonial red. Her posture straight. Her face a calm sea with storms underneath.
“Yes. Sword. Bow. Any weapon that spills blood.”
“You are a blacksmith,” he said. “You have power, but no purpose.”
Samara didn’t blink. “Then give me one.”
His hand curled over the dragon-carved armrest. “You will marry Skaal of Valheim. Serve as you were meant to.”
Samara exhaled. Slowly.
“I was meant for more than a collar and a womb.”
Tenchi stood. “You were born weak. Reborn cursed. Be grateful I don’t chain you.”
She turned her back to him before she lost her composure.
“Better cursed and free,” she whispered, “than royal and broken.”
---
**Ayato**
The koi pond glittered under moonlight.
Samara sat at the edge, dipping her fingers into the water just to feel something. The surface splashed up her sleeve as she misjudged the depth, and she nearly lost her balance leaning too far forward. She flailed for a second and caught herself with a grunt—half indignation, half surprise. A passing servant paused at the scene, eyebrows raised, but said nothing. Samara pretended not to notice, withdrawing her damp arm and muttering, "Smooth... real graceful."
Then came the voice.
“Samaraaaaa!”
A blur tackled her.
“Gah—!”
He hugged her. Tall. Muscular. Long black hair. Bright, idiotic grin. His clothes were half-untucked, his smile somewhere between princely and playboy.
“You really don’t remember your favorite brother?”
“…I have brothers?”
He gasped, clutching his chest theatrically. “Ouch. That hurts more than a wyvern bite.”
He took her by the shoulders and gave her a once-over, grinning like a fox. “You're looking alive. More than I can say about the last time I saw you. Also... wow. You really grew into yourself, huh?”
Samara rolled her eyes. “Back off, creeper.”
“Aw, c’mon, you know I’m charming. Women love me. Men want to be me. Soldiers pray to me.”
She quirked a brow. “I’m starting to see why they call you a menace.”
Ayato gave a mock bow. “Only to my enemies—and to my sisters when I sneak into their chambers uninvited.”
He produced a lacquered tea box from the sleeves of his robe and motioned toward the nearby table.
“Sit with me, will you? I brought your favorite.”
He poured tea with graceful precision, then handed her a cup. Samara sniffed—it was floral, warm, subtly sweet.
“I don’t remember liking this,” she murmured.
“You did. Once. When we were kids. You said it tasted like sunlight in the mountains.”
Samara sipped slowly. And for a moment—just a moment—she tasted it too. Something old and warm stirred deep within. She didn’t know if it was real. If it belonged to Sam or Samara. But it settled the ache in her chest.
“You really are different,” Ayato said, softer now.
“Yeah?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Yeah. But you’re still you. Somewhere under all that new fire.”
Samara didn’t answer.
They sat in silence, letting the steam rise between them.
Then—
A soft knock echoed from the edge of the garden path. A uniformed man bowed low, his face tense with urgency.
“My prince. News from the Northern Outpost.”
Ayato’s smile faded but didn’t vanish. He gave Samara one last sip’s worth of silence before setting his teacup down with deliberate calm.
“You’ll excuse me, dearest sister,” he said, standing with an almost theatrical sigh. “Duty calls. I’m afraid the north is behaving badly again.”
He strode toward the soldier, took the sealed scroll, and read it swiftly.
“Undead wyverns,” he said flatly. “Breaching the northern range. Confirmed necromancy.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but the atmosphere shifted around him—pressure rippling through the air. His smile returned, tighter now. “Ready my horse. Tell General Kaido to burn anything that flaps its wings.”
Then his eyes slid toward the shadow standing behind the lantern-lit wall.
“Sumire.”
She stepped forward—a tall, statuesque woman in obsidian-wrapped armor, her face pale and unreadable. Her hair was tied in a perfect knot, not a strand out of place. Her eyes, grey as smoke, watched Samara like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Ayato’s tone changed.
“She does not leave your sight. Not for tea. Not for prayer. If anyone touches her, remove their hand. If anyone speaks against her, remove their tongue. If anyone dares look at her wrong—kill them softly. And report it after.”
Sumire bowed silently, her presence sharper than steel.
Ayato turned back to Samara and knelt briefly beside her.
“Don’t die while I’m gone,” he said, not whispering this time. “I just got you back.”
He turned to Samara, pulled her into a quick embrace.
Her body stiffened. It was instinct—too much contact, too much warmth. His grip was firm, brotherly, and it only made things more awkward. She had no idea what to do with her hands, and one of them weirdly hovered mid-air behind his back before she gave up and tapped his shoulder twice like she was burping a baby.
Still, something inside her eased. A flicker of recognition in the way her muscles relaxed in his arms. She didn’t trust it—she didn’t *understand* it—but her body knew this embrace. Knew Ayato.
“Don’t die while I’m gone,” he whispered. “I just got you back.”
Samara grunted. “Yeah, well… no promises. I’m not exactly built for survival. I tripped on a pillow this morning.”
---
**TO BE CONTINUED**
