Chapter Twelve:The Girl Who Knew Too Much About Cake

The moment Arila Vellion opened her eyes, she knew something was terribly wrong.

First, there was the ceiling—far too fancy. Ornate gold trim, delicate cherubs in questionable poses, and a gaudy painted sky that tried far too hard to look serene.

Second, she was buried beneath a mountain of ruffled blankets that smelled like lavender and oppression.

Third—and most offensive of all—she was wearing a pink dress.

Not just pink. Aggressively pink. Fluffy, lacy, puff-sleeved, ribbon-covered pink. The kind of dress that made you feel like an overdecorated cupcake being forced to perform at a five-year-old's tea party.

She groaned. Her head throbbed. Her limbs felt heavy, foreign. Her tongue was dry, and her first conscious thought was:

"If I hear a piano, I'm burning this place down."

A bird chirped politely outside the window.

She turned her head with great effort and took in her surroundings: high windows with sheer lace curtains fluttering in the breeze, an elaborate chandelier overhead, walls lined with bookcases and flower vases.

It looked like the loading screen for a visual novel.

"Great," she muttered hoarsely. "I reincarnated into a dollhouse."

The door burst open.

"My lady!" came a high-pitched cry, followed by the clatter of porcelain.

A young maid—short red curls, wide amber eyes—rushed to the bedside, nearly dropping her tea tray.

"She's awake! She's really awake!"

Before Arila could croak a reply, more footsteps echoed down the hall. Moments later, a tall man in richly embroidered noble robes swept in, his green eyes wide. Behind him followed a woman in pale blue and silver, with an elegant updo and a face lined with worry—and relief.

Her parents.

"Arila!" the man boomed, crossing the room in long strides. He dropped to his knees beside her bed with little regard for dignity. "You're awake! You're safe! Starlight above, I knew you'd come back to us!"

"Careful, Caelan," the woman said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. She turned to Arila, her sky-blue eyes misting. "Welcome back, sweetheart."

Arila blinked. Her brain supplied helpful labels. Father. Mother. Panic. Why are they sparkling with tears?

"Uh," she rasped. "Hi?"

Her father's face split into a wide, teary grin.

"She's talking! Ha! First words after two days and it's 'hi.' Brilliant!"

Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a lace kerchief. "You gave us quite the fright. Tripping in the garden, hitting your head on that statue..."

Oh, right. The bee incident. The former Arila had gone out for a walk, been chased by an aggressive garden bee, tripped, and faceplanted into a marble cherub.

Dignified.

Once they were satisfied she wasn't going to fall unconscious again, Arila was gently propped up with pillows and offered tea. She sipped it slowly, blinking at the array of overly polished furniture and servants bustling in and out.

The maid who'd found her—Lira, her brain offered—fussed over her like a mother hen.

"Your hair's all tangled," Lira muttered affectionately, brushing her fingers through the midnight-black strands. "And you're clammy. We should get you into a fresh gown. Something cheerful. Pastel, perhaps."

"No."

Lira blinked. "No...?"

"Burn this dress. Bury the ashes. Salt the earth."

Lira stared at her for a moment, then laughed nervously. "Oh, Lady Arila. You've always had such a sense of humor."

"Right. Humor. That's what I'm known for."

After the initial chaos passed and her parents went to inform the estate's healers of her recovery, Arila was allowed to change into a less horrifically ruffled outfit. By noble standards, it was still too much—pale blue with pearl buttons and a tight corset—but at least it didn't look like cotton candy had exploded.

She sat before the vanity, peering at her reflection. Long, ink-black hair. Blue eyes like stormy skies. Delicate, aristocratic features.

"Yup," she muttered. "Definitely looks like a dating sim protagonist. Great. That means drama's coming. Probably some tragic violin backstory. Better brace for impact."

Lira entered with a soft knock. "Would you like a short walk through the gardens, my lady? You've been in bed for days."

"Sure. Lead the way before someone tries to make me wear lace gloves."

The Vellion estate was massive—rolling green gardens, fountains shaped like mythical beasts, enchanted lanterns floating through the trees. It was stunning. Aesthetically speaking, 10/10 fantasy RPG visuals. Functional comfort? Zero. The paths were made of polished marble, the benches too stiff to sit on, and the flowerbeds looked like they might fight back if touched.

Still, Arila had to admit—it beat being dead. Again.

As they passed through the east garden, several maids and a butler stopped what they were doing to bow.

"My lady! You're awake!"

"Thank the stars! We were all so worried!"

"She looks... different, doesn't she?"

Whispers followed her like curious birds. Arila ignored them with practiced indifference. She was already forming her plan: survive, avoid all romance flags, and find the kitchen.

Back inside, the household began to buzz with fresh energy. Arila's sudden shift in demeanor confused the staff, amused her father, and quietly alarmed her mother.

"She's more assertive," Evelaine murmured later to Caelan over dinner. "More confident. Almost... worldly."

"She's witty now!" Caelan beamed. "She told me I was 'a noble peacock in a judge's robe.' I nearly wept with pride."

Evelaine gave him a patient look. "She also asked if she could install a steam kettle in her room to 'accelerate pastry production.'"

Caelan's smile widened. "Our daughter is a visionary."

That night, Arila sat cross-legged on her massive canopy bed, flipping through a book she hadn't read, muttering about spell theory and mana pools. Lira brushed her hair gently.

"You seem... brighter today," Lira said carefully.

Arila hummed. "Guess smacking my head knocked something useful loose."

Lira giggled. "If it makes you happier, I don't mind."

Arila looked up at her. Lira's expression was soft. Protective. Understanding.

For the first time since waking in this frilly fever dream of a world, Arila felt something she hadn't expected:

Safe.

She leaned back and let her maid fuss over her hair.

Outside, the estate slept under silver moonlight. Fireflies danced through enchanted hedges. Somewhere in the distance, a breeze rustled, and leaves stirred with the faintest hum of magic.

Arila closed her eyes, muttering, "This better not turn into one of those dramatic shoujo arcs."

To be continued...