When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in my dorm room or at my desk.
I was in a four-poster bed the size of a parking space, with velvet curtains, floral wallpaper, and a faint scent of lemon polish in the air.
Also — I had tiny hands.
I was seven.
And unfortunately, still Celia Averna.
Yes. That Celia Averna.
The minor villain from Legacy of the Wand and Crown — a magical romance novel I binge-read over spring break.
She barely lasted four chapters. Arrogant, rude, magically useless… banished for bullying the heroine, and never mentioned again.
To make it worse, I could barely remember her. She was just one of those early obstacles the protagonist outgrew. I didn't even know how she got expelled. All I remembered was that her ending wasn't pretty.
Banished, if she was lucky. Executed if the author felt dramatic.
Or poisoned with tea. That book loved dramatic tea.
Now I was her.
A knock came from the door.
"My lady?" a voice called softly. "Breakfast is served."
I blinked again, slowly processing everything.
New body. New world. New doom.
…Fantastic.
I slipped out of bed, pulled on some ridiculous lace-trimmed socks, and braced myself for the first meal of my villainous second life.
---
Breakfast was tense.
Not because of the food (which was actually amazing), but because I had to sit across from Duke Hadrian Averna — aka, the Iron Wolf of the North, aka… my father.
He looked like a man who scared bears for fun. His shoulders were wider than the table and he wore armor to breakfast.
"Celia," he said, eyes narrowing. "You're quiet today."
Compliment? Threat? Invitation to duel?
"I've decided to behave, Father," I said sweetly.
He stared at me like I'd grown two heads.
"You're not sick?"
"No."
"Possessed?"
"No more than usual."
"…Hmph."
He said nothing more, but I noticed he pushed a second croissant onto my plate.
That's when it hit me:
> My terrifying warlord father… doted on me.
Not loudly. But in the small things — the extra pastry, the subtle nod, the way he told the maids to cut the thorns off my roses.
Unfortunately, this also meant:
He refused to let me do anything remotely dangerous.
Swordplay? "What if you trip?"
Magic training? "What if it explodes?"
Riding a horse? "What if the horse has emotions?"
He wanted me to be soft and safe.
But I had read Legacy of the Wand and Crown.
And I knew what happened to this version of me.
So I had no choice.
> I had eight years until I turned fifteen — the age required to take the entrance exam to the prestigious Rosenvale Magic Academy.
Eight years to go from a doomed extra to someone who could actually survive.
Rosenvale wasn't just a school — it was the school. Nobles, mages, knights, heirs — all trained there. And the heroine of the book? She would arrive in her first year, bright-eyed and ready for drama.
I had to be ready long before that.
> I would train myself.
---
I started in the library.
I read every book I could find on basic spell theory, mana circulation, and beginner sword stances.
Which was great — except most of them assumed you already had a tutor, a wand, and a lifetime of discipline.
I had… none of those.
My first wand? A bent table fork.
My sword? A broom handle with a ribbon tied on the end.
My training uniform? Pajamas.
Week one: I tried a spell called "Spark."
Result: the carpet caught fire and a maid screamed.
Week two: I copied a mana exercise from a dusty grimoire.
Result: a potted plant floated for two seconds and then exploded.
The plant is fine. I'm not sure about the pot.
Week three: I practiced sword forms using a coat rack as my opponent.
Result: The coat rack won.
> Still, I didn't give up.
I trained in secret at night — in the greenhouse, the kitchen, the wine cellar (great echo for chanting).
If anyone asked, I said I was playing.
If they saw scorch marks, I blamed ghosts.
It worked more often than you'd expect.
Progress was slow, messy, and slightly flammable.
But it was mine.
Somewhere between setting a pillow on fire and levitating half a lemon tart, I realized something:
> I was improving.
Tiny bits at first — steadier mana control, less nosebleeds, fewer magical backfires.
But improvement, nonetheless.
And it wasn't just magic.
I knew that in the book, Celia's body was weak. Her affinity for magic was below average. She relied on expensive potions and brute arrogance, not skill.
So I ran laps. Did stretches. Lifted books like dumbbells.
I even invented "explosion squats" — squatting every time a spell misfired. Which, in week five, meant a lot of squats.
After all:
> If I was going to rewrite this story, I needed to train my mind, my magic, and my body.
No more villainous dead-end. No more forgotten footnote.
Just me, my fork-wand, my coat rack nemesis, and eight (okay, now seven) years to become someone who could survive the plot.
Even if I had to do it all alone — with pajamas for armor and a broomstick for a sword.
> I wasn't Celia Averna the extra anymore.
> I was Celia Averna the rewrite.