Divonne stirred in the middle of the night, her breath shallow as her eyes fluttered open to meet the familiar ceiling of her childhood bedroom. The moonlight spilled across the floorboards, painting her space in hues of silver and sorrow. She sat up slowly, absorbing every inch of her surroundings—each shelf, curtain, and relic of her past life whispering to her like ghosts of forgotten days.
A heavy nostalgia pressed against her chest as she swung her legs over the bed and moved toward the balcony doors. Pushing them open, she stepped out into the embrace of the wind. It was fierce and cold, as though the world itself was exhaling its secrets.
Staring down at the sprawling gardens of the Herisville mansion, she began to whisper—her voice more thought than sound.
"I chose this date on purpose. There's too much that's been left unhealed in this family—too many twisted things rotting beneath the surface. This opportunity… it's rare. If I must carry the burden of a Spirit Master, why shouldn't I use its power to set things right? Or… does that make me selfish?"
She raised her palms to the moonlight, studying them. Small. Delicate.
"My hands… they're smaller again. My body too. I'm twelve years old once more. But this time… this time I have knowledge. And I will use it."
She turned to glance back at her bed, then let out a short, bitter laugh.
"This is insane. Divonne Lynette Herisville—master of spirits? Who would believe it?"
"Wait…"
Her eyes widened as a realization struck her. She hurried back inside, sat cross-legged on her bed, and called out in a steady but commanding tone:
"Spirit of Death. Come forth."
A flash of light burst into the room, and the same radiant entity from the afterlife materialized before her, its presence unmistakable.
"You summoned me, Master."
Divonne tilted her head, suspicion laced in her voice.
"You expected me to figure it out on my own?"
The Spirit of Death touched its translucent fingers to its chin, mimicking contemplation.
"It was the most logical outcome. I explained what you were in the afterlife."
Divonne snorted softly, the corner of her mouth twitching.
"Fair enough."
She exhaled slowly, the burden of memory settling over her like a heavy cloak.
"There's still so much I don't know. But choosing this date was the right call, wasn't it?"
"Indeed. Among Spirit Masters, the youngest returned at age ten, the oldest at sixteen."
"No one chose an adult age?"
"It's forbidden. Even if a Spirit Master dies old, they must return early—to buy time for their mission."
"I understand now… Thank you."
"The pleasure is mine," the spirit said, bowing low.
Another thought struck her. Urgency gripped her voice.
"The other spirits… I can summon them the same way?"
"Yes, Master."
"Then let's not waste time. Spirit of Wind, Spirit of Water—come forth!"
Two luminous entities burst into existence, joining the Spirit of Death. Their voices echoed in perfect unison.
"You summoned us, Master."
Relief washed over her.
"Finally… You're all here. I barely remember you from the history books, so forgive me if I ask too many questions."
The spirits stood in silence, awaiting her command.
"I know your powers are limited on Earth unless summoned by your master. You reside in your own dimensions until you're called every 400 years, right?"
The Spirit of Death nodded solemnly.
"Correct. And you must name us and assign forms we can appear in—ones you'll recognize."
These spirits—ancient forces of the Anachebol Empire—had no fixed form, gender, or identity. Their names and appearances were gifts granted by their chosen masters, changing with each summoning.
Without a master, they were limited. But bound to one, their powers bloomed:
The Spirit of Wind, beyond controlling natural ventilation, could now teleport its master, manipulate air currents for stealth or defense, and sense distant movement.
The Spirit of Water, bringer of rain and guardian of rivers, granted communication with nature and animals.
And the Spirit of Death, most feared of all, allowed passage between realms, communion with the dead, and perception of souls.
Divonne stepped forward.
"I'm… not the best at naming. But I'll give you something I won't forget."
The three spirits kneeled, silent and obedient.
"We accept whatever identity you give us, Master."
Divonne smiled slightly.
"Then Spirit of Death—you'll take the form of a young girl. From now on, your name is 'Void.'"
"Understood, Your Grace."
In a blink, the entity transformed into a small girl with short brown hair and coal-black eyes—innocent and eerie all at once.
"Spirit of Wind—you'll be called Willer. Take the form of an owl. My eyes and ears."
A flash of feathers, and the spirit shifted into a white owl with golden eyes.
"Spirit of Water—you'll be Marto. You'll take the form of a king cobra. Elegant and quiet."
The final transformation occurred with a hiss as a sleek white snake with emerald eyes slithered beside her, its length coiled in silent reverence.
Divonne stood among her spirits, a flicker of determination in her ocean-green eyes.
"Now this… this feels right."
The Morning After:
The morning light crept quietly through the drapes of Divonne's chamber, painting soft gold across the marble floor. She lay motionless on her bed, staring at the ornate ceiling above her, her eyes wide open but weighed down by the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind.
"The first day… after I turned twelve. September 16th, 1546. My brothers are alive… for now. Lython—sixteen. Monertan—fourteen."
Her chest tightened. Memories surged up like waves crashing against a dam, and with them came a wave of nausea and dread. She closed her eyes tightly.
"And she's still here."
Her hands clenched the silk sheets beneath her.
"Jovita… that wretched woman."
Knock. Knock.
"Your Grace, are you awake?" a gentle voice filtered through the door. "I've come to prepare you for breakfast. Your brothers will be in the dining hall soon."
"Come in," Divonne answered, her voice clear and commanding despite her emotional storm.
The door opened, and a young woman stepped in, balancing a bowl of steaming water. Her features were soft, freckled, and familiar. Her brown hair was tied back, her onyx eyes calm. She wasn't tall, but she carried herself with quiet strength. It was Juana.
In the previous life, Juana had been more than just a maid—she had been Divonne's only friend, her silent comfort, the only one who wept when she was sold off like cattle.
Divonne sat up slowly. Her room, grand and gilded in early morning light, seemed both beautiful and cruel.
"Good morning, Juana," she said gently, trying to conceal the ache in her voice. "Did you sleep well?"
The maid bowed, a warm smile on her lips. "Of course, Your Grace."
As Juana turned to prepare the bathwater, Divonne's voice halted her.
"Wait. There's no need for a warm bath this morning. I want ice."
Juana paused mid-step. "Your Grace?"
"Prepare a cold bath for me," Divonne said. "Two buckets of ice in the tub, mixed with cold water."
Juana stared at her, stunned. "But Your Grace… the temperature—your health—"
"I'll only soak for five minutes," Divonne said firmly. "I need it. Please."
Juana hesitated, then bowed slightly. "As you wish. I'll bring the ice right away."
Divonne stood and walked barefoot into her bath chamber. The stone floor chilled her soles. She welcomed it.
Moments later, Juana returned with the ice buckets, quietly setting up the plunge and a separate warmer bath to follow. She worked silently, professionally, but Divonne could sense her unease.
"Everything is ready, Your Grace. I'll wait outside. Just call when you're finished."
"Thank you, Juana."
THE FALL OF THE HERISVILLES IN THE PREVIOUS TIMELINE:
The House of Herisville was once a pillar among the three greatest ducal families in the Empire of Anachebol—respected, envied, and feared. Their name echoed through the empire's courts and battlefields alike, a lineage tied not only to ancient bloodlines, but also to unfathomable potential.
The Late Duchess, Doreta Herisville, had not been born into nobility. She was the daughter of simple farmers—humble, honest people from the northern provinces. Yet what she lacked in aristocratic blood, she made up for in intellect, charm, and an unshakable will. Rising against all odds, Doreta became a powerful economic reformer and eventually married into nobility, capturing the heart of Duke Gordon Talino Herisville.
Doreta had one sibling—her younger sister, Jovita—whom she loved dearly. Perhaps too dearly. Blinded by affection, Doreta had raised her like a second daughter. No one could've foreseen that the one she nurtured so selflessly would later become the viper that tore her legacy apart.
Together, the Duke and Duchess birthed three children:
Lython Darjer Herisville, the firstborn;
Monertan Sozler Herisville, the second;
And Divonne Lynette Herisville—the last child and only daughter.
Lython was a prodigy of war. As Second-in-Command to the Empire's First Prince, he was hailed as a military genius. With piercing ocean-green eyes and striking black hair, he captivated nobles and commoners alike. His blade spoke louder than his words, and his loyalty to the Empire made him a figure of national pride.
But behind the glory, Lython was bleeding.
From the age of sixteen, he lived under the same roof as his aunt—Jovita—who had taken guardianship after the sudden deaths of their parents. For nine long years, Lython suffered in silence, enduring grotesque and repeated abuse at her hands. His pride wouldn't let him speak. His strength became his prison.
He took his own life at twenty-five.
Monertan, the second son, was no less exceptional. A master of sorcery by the age of seventeen, he was a scholar of ancient magic, revered across academies and courts. Though he shared Lython's features, his eyes were the soft, sky-blue hue of their late father—eyes once filled with curiosity and wisdom.
But Monertan, too, became trapped in Jovita's web. Manipulated, broken, and used, he withdrew from society, refusing courtships, isolating himself behind books and spells. His magic remained intact—but his spirit was hollow.
Despite his power, he was spiritually shattered.
A sorcerer of great promise… reduced to a shell.
And then there was Divonne.
At fifteen, she was married off like an inconvenient burden—to a widowed Count nearly twice her age. Jovita arranged it under the pretense of strengthening political alliances. In truth, it was an execution in disguise.
The man she married was a monster in noble skin. Cold. Possessive. Depraved. He treated her as property—a breathing tool for pleasure and submission. When she resisted, he punished her: with chains, hunger, and solitude. The dungeon beneath his estate became her second home.
He violated her at will, forcing her into his twisted fantasies. And yet, whenever her brothers visited, Divonne smiled, played the part, and swallowed the agony whole. She had to. The Count threatened to kill Lython and Monertan if she uttered even a whisper of the truth.
No one in his household protected her. Not a maid. Not a servant. Not even his own blood. She was utterly alone—imprisoned in body, suffocating in soul.
But the turning point came after Lython's death. A farewell letter reached her hands—smudged with desperation, pain, and truth. He had uncovered Jovita's manipulations, her enchantments, her crimes. He had suspected he was being poisoned, controlled. And though he hadn't named her directly, his final words confirmed everything Divonne feared.
Monertan died not long after—rumored to have drowned himself during a magical experiment gone wrong.
Two graves. One monster.
Divonne escaped her husband's estate in the middle of the night. She returned to the Herisville mansion in secret, storming its halls with nothing but rage and grief guiding her. There, at the top of the grand staircase, she confronted Jovita.
And Jovita smiled.
She didn't deny anything. She didn't plead. She didn't scream.
She simply shoved her.
Divonne fell.
Down twenty-seven marble steps.
And into death.
CURRENT TIME LINE IN DIVONNE'S BED ROOM
Six minutes after her cold plunge,
Divonne stepped out of the tub, water trailing down her pale legs. She wrapped herself in a thick robe, shivering slightly—not from the cold, but from the awakening clarity rushing through her veins.
She called Juana back in, who helped her dress and dry her hair.
"What would you like to wear today, my lady? I've laid out a few gowns—"
"All black."
Juana paused. "I… didn't quite catch that, Your Grace."
"I said," Divonne said, turning to face her with calm precision, "I'm wearing all black today. You know what to do."
Juana blinked, concerned. "Are we… mourning someone, Your Grace?"
Divonne's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. An animal. One I visited often at the tower. It died yesterday. I'm mourning it today."
Juana, sensing the weight behind her words, bowed respectfully. "I understand. I'll get everything ready."
The black gown was long, flowing, with a square neckline and understated elegance. Juana carefully brushed and tied Divonne's long, bright ginger hair, braiding it down her back in a simple but regal style. When she was done, she paused—gazing at her lady through the mirror.
There she was: the youngest Herisville. Divine. Untouched by time. Almond-shaped ocean -green eyes gleaming with secrets. Skin like alabaster. A girl—yet not.
"All done, Your Grace," Juana said softly. "Your aunt and brothers are in the dining hall."
Divonne stood. "Thank you, Juana. I'll head there now."
Juana bowed. "Of course, Your Grace."
Breakfast with Shadows—
The large double doors of the dining hall opened slowly.
Jovita's voice, sharp and smooth, cut through the silence like a knife.
"I was beginning to think you'd sleep the whole morning away."
Divonne stepped in, her heels clicking softly against the floor, her long black gown flowing behind her like a veil of grief.
Jovita's eyes landed on her. There it was—that piercing stare, laced with silent control, the kind that once made Divonne flinch. But now? It washed over her like wind against stone.
"Div! Sit next to me!" Monertan's cheerful voice broke the tension.
Divonne's expression softened as she turned to him. "Of course."
She slid into the seat beside him, noticing Lython quietly eating across the table, his usual calm presence comforting.
"Did you sleep well, Div?" Lython finally asked, his voice low but gentle. "Yesterday's celebration was… overwhelming."
"I slept well, Lython," she replied with a smile. "Thank you."
But the moment didn't last.
Jovita's voice came again, sharp and petty.
"You're awfully cheerful for someone dressed like they're mourning their husband."
Divonne smiled, her expression unreadable.
"Husband? My dear Aunt, it's quite the opposite. I'm actually in a fantastic mood. Yesterday was my twelfth birthday, remember?"