Tears welled in her eyes. She bit her lip, but she couldn’t stop them.
The water’s surface rippled with fine waves from her involuntary trembling.
The balm jar sat quietly on the edge of the bath, a faint light flowing across its surface as if it were breathing.
Flora stared at it, her palms sweating.
To apply it, she had to touch this body.
She had to acknowledge its existence.
She had to acknowledge that “she” was like this now.
Her fingertips hovered in the air for a long time, as if the balm were not a cream, but a trap that could explode at any moment.
Finally, she took a deep breath and reached her finger into the jar. The balm was icy, yet soft enough to melt like snow against her skin.
When she pulled a dollop of that cold substance from the jar, her finger even gave a slight tremor. She stared at the small amount of light-colored paste, her throat tightening.
She would apply it to her arms first, as they were the least “awkward” spots.
Her hand landed on her left arm.
The moment her fingertips touched the skin, her entire being felt as if it had been struck by electricity.
This arm was so slender it didn’t feel like hers. It lacked the familiar lines and the roughness she had once ground into herself through training. Instead, it was thin, soft, and felt as if it would break with a gentle squeeze.
Her breath hitched, and her movements froze.
“…. Calm down,” she whispered to herself.
She forced herself to spread the balm. She pushed it extremely slowly, as if she were touching something she shouldn’t.
The balm quickly melted into a transparent layer, spreading across her skin.
She didn’t dare look in the mirror, nor did she dare look at the reflection in the water.
She didn’t even dare look down her own arm. She simply stared at her fingertips, watching them as if she were under visual induction magic.
‘This isn’t me… not me…’ she repeated in her heart.
But the sensation coming from her fingertips told her clearly — all of this was her.
The rims of her eyes grew hot.
She switched to her right arm.
Her movements became even stiffer, and the balm was applied almost in a straight line, as if she didn’t dare truly touch herself and simply wanted to rush through the task.
But the hardest part was still ahead.
Her thighs.
The water swayed gently, and her broken reflection shivered into a blur.
But as long as she lowered her head even slightly, she would see those soft, slender thighs that didn’t look like hers at all.
And that flat place.
She bit her lip, her fingertips trembling in the air.
Flora slowly leaned over, her hand falling above the water’s surface.
The moment her fingers finally touched the skin of her thigh, her entire body jolted, and she even let out a very soft cry.
“*Kiang!*”
The skin on her thighs was softer and more sensitive than her arms. This peculiar sensation left her at a loss for how to proceed.
Closing her eyes, she had no choice but to rub the balm onto her thighs with a bit more force.
The balm soon melted, sliding along her skin.
Flora’s brow furrowed deeply.
She had never viewed her own body from this angle, at this distance, or in such a “forced” manner.
A surge of mixed emotions — shame, denial, anger, and panic — rushed upward.
She nearly held her breath as she finished applying the balm to the other thigh.
The entire process was so short it could hardly be called “thorough,” yet it made her sweat more than any battle ever had. The moment she finished, her hand went limp, and the balm jar nearly fell into the water.
The scent of the balm was very light.
But in Flora’s nose, it felt as if it were being infinitely magnified.
She curled up in the bath, her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders shaking slightly.
But she didn’t cry.
The water pressed against her, giving her a warmth that felt like being embraced, but that same warmth felt so heavy it made it hard to breathe.
“… I hate this,” she whispered.
She hated this body.
She hated this uncontrollable sense of shame.
She hated that she had to face it like this.
She hated the demon race who had stolen everything from her original life.
She hated the question she could never ask: “Why did it have to be me?”
She rested her forehead against her knees and closed her eyes.
The balm soon took effect, and her skin grew slightly warm, as if it were being gently soothed. But all Flora felt was a deeper sense of exhaustion.
By the time she finally washed up and stood, both her legs were trembling with weakness.
She threw on a bathrobe, feeling as if she were escaping from the water back into reality.
Just as she stepped onto the outer carpet, a soft voice sounded from outside the door.
“Your highness, are you out? We need to dry your hair.”
Flora suddenly gripped her bathrobe, pulling the collar up even higher.
She took a deep breath and forced her voice to remain steady. “No need. Not tonight.”
The maid hesitated. “But…”
“No need,” Flora repeated, her tone as cold as ice. “I can do it myself.”
The maid finally withdrew, helpless.
Silence returned to the hallway.
Flora leaned against the door, her palms cold and her steps weak.
She had to face this alone.
Only then could she preserve the last bit of her own dignity within this strange body.
Flora stood and rested for a good while before she continued moving.
The bathrobe clung to her body, and while the warmth hadn’t yet dissipated, her back was already drenched in a cold chill.
The magic dryer was placed beside the vanity. It was a crystal device driven by mana that would emit warm air with a gentle touch.
She sat down, her movements incredibly stiff.
In the mirror, that face with its wet, long hair, slightly red eyes, and unsteady breathing was so foreign it nearly made her want to cover the glass.
‘Don’t look.’
She spoke to herself in a low voice, yet she still had to reach out and take the overly exquisite magic dryer.
As the warm air blew, her long hair rose gently.
The color, which faded from pure white to a pale lavender, looked as if it had been kissed by moonlight under the lamps — soft, bright, and unreasonably beautiful.
But the more beautiful it was, the more trouble it brought.
The more she looked like the demon race, the more she found it unbearable.
The wind brushed past her hair, her ear tips, and her neck. That bit of warmth sent a subtle, itchy sensation through her heart.
It wasn’t comfortable, nor was it unpleasant; it was simply an indescribable feeling that “didn’t belong to her.”
Her hand paused for a moment. She took a deep breath and continued drying. Toward the end, her movements gradually stabilized.
The sound of the wind was steady and gentle, as if it were blowing away the chaotic emotions left over from the bath bit by bit.
But it couldn’t blow away the hard lump of resolve in her mind.
She stared at herself in the mirror for a long time.
It wasn’t for the sake of acceptance, but for confirmation. She needed to confirm how dire her situation was.
She needed to confirm that she couldn’t allow this castle, this body, or these ritualistic rules to slowly assimilate her.
She gently set the magic dryer down, not letting it make a single unnecessary sound.
Then, she raised her head and looked at the pale gold eyes in the mirror.
Those eyes were beautiful, possessing a sense of purity and power unique to the demon race.
But she knew they weren’t hers.
Her voice rang out softly in the room.
“… I have to leave.”
She stood from the chair, her movements light but firm.
She pressed her fingertips against her heart. The beat there was steady, yet foreign.
Regardless of what this body was, regardless of what the demon race considered her to be, and regardless of what Ilya wanted to see from her.
She had to leave this place.
Her dried hair fell softly over her shoulders, as smooth as silk.
But her gaze was as steady as a blade.
Tonight, she had made her choice once again.