Practice to be a true nobleman

Anthea didn't close the book right away. The revelation about her identity-semidragon, immortal, friend of gods-weighed on her mind like a leaden slab, but at the same time, it ignited a spark of pragmatic curiosity. If she was going to play this role, she needed more information.

"I already know who I am. Now I need to know where I stand. Physically and politically."

She spent the next few hours devouring information. He didn't look for grand spells or dark arcane secrets; he focused on the basics. Geography, political structure of the empire, fundamental laws.

He read about the other Principalities that made up the Empire. Xochik'an, land of elves and nature-like races, with its jungles and step pyramids. Svartholm, land of blacksmiths and iron mountains, where humans and semi-humans dwell. Rymokjaféts, land of dragons-although most of its inhabitants were made up of different variants of dragons or demi-dragons, because pure dragons were few in number.

Every name, every map, every diagram was etched in his mind with a clarity that at first he attributed to adrenaline.

When he finally decided he had pushed his luck enough for one day, he closed the last volume. The sun must have been low by now, judging by the change in the light filtering through the library's tall windows.

Erasmus appeared again, as silent as a shadow, to escort her out.

"I hope the search was fruitful, Your Excellency."

"It was, Erasmus. It was."

Crossing the threshold of the library and returning to the hall, Anthea mentally prepared herself for the challenge of returning to her room. She remembered that the way there had been a maze of identical turns, stairs, and hallways.

Without the scholars to guide her, she was sure she would have to ask some guard for help and expose her disorientation.

However, as soon as her feet touched the marble of the corridor, something strange happened.

There was no hesitation.

His legs moved with an automatic certainty.

Turn left into the corridor of Corinthian columns.

Go straight ahead to the third semicircular arch.

Down the stairs, ignore the first detour, take the second right.

Anthea stopped dead in her tracks halfway down a corridor.

She looked back. The path she had just traveled unfolded in her mind not as a blurred memory, but as a perfect architectural blueprint. He could "see" in his head the exact number of chandeliers he had passed (twelve). He could remember the pattern of the veins in the marble on the floor.

He could even remember the phrase carved into the edge of the pond in the inner courtyard, word for word, with the exact intonation with which he had read it in his mind hours before.

"Take a deep breath. Let the water carry away what you can't carry."

-Wait. I was so scared before about waking up in this body that I didn't notice. But this is not normal.

She resumed walking, this time testing herself. She tried to remember the text of Chronicles of the Zerathrax Empire.

The pages appeared in her mind as if she had the book open in front of her eyes. She could read the paragraph about Ušumgarza backwards if she wanted to.

-Eidetic memory. No, better than that. It's like my brain is a hard drive with instant access.

The walk back, which should have been a source of anxiety, turned into a leisurely stroll. Anthea gave slight nods to the servants who parted in her wake, feeling for the first time a little more in control of the situation.

She reached the door to her chambers without a single mistake.

He entered and closed the door behind him, leaning his back against the cold wood.

The room was silent, just as he had left it.

Anthea let out a long, shaky sigh, but this time there was a note of triumph in it.

If her memory worked like that, if she really could retain and process information at that speed, then maybe - just maybe - she had a chance of surviving in this nest of dragons and politicians.

He approached the full-length mirror and looked at his reflection. Anthea Rosengard's eyes looked back at her, cold and ancient.

-What kind of life have you been through, Anthea Rosengard?

During her marathon reading, she had discovered something disturbing: they were currently in the Sixth Age. Civilization had advanced considerably since the time of the original Anthea. If he were to compare it to his old world, they would be in the late Middle Ages transitioning into the Modern Age. There were printing presses, formalized magic academies, complex banking systems.

But what was most disturbing was what he hadn 't found.

The Second Age-the time when Anthea had supposedly walked alongside the gods-was shrouded in myth and legend. There were no reliable records. What I had read was more fairy tale than documented history. The texts spoke of "the Immortal Half-Dragon" with the same vague reverence one would speak of Merlin or King Arthur.

Many things were simply not recorded. Like why Anthea had become so somber and morose. The texts only vaguely mentioned that "something happened" that changed her temperament, but the what of the matter remained in total obscurity.

Anthea theorized that something serious must have happened. Perhaps the death of a loved one. Perhaps a betrayal. Perhaps simply the weight of immortality. Who knows.

But that raised another practical and immediate question: would she have to continue acting like an aristocrat?

Probably no one would question her if her behavior suddenly became more casual. After all, millennia were plenty of time for attitude changes.

But on the other hand... people with lots of money or high status always acted a certain way naturally, like breathing, didn't they?

Even if you were depressed, you kept your composure, your cool elegance, your impeccable bearing. It was such a trained social muscle that it probably worked on autopilot.

Or at least that's how Anthea saw it.

-So just in case, I'll keep on acting. It's better to be safe than sorry. Besides, how hard can it be to play someone emotionally constipated? I already have corporate experience.

She laughed softly at her own inside joke, then covered her mouth in horror as she realized she had just laughed out loud.

-Great. First rule of interpretation: Anthea Rosengard doesn't laugh at her own jokes. Noted.

Anthea moved closer to the full-length mirror, studying her reflection with a mixture of curiosity and determination. The soft afternoon light illuminated her pale, almost translucent skin, which looked as delicate as fine porcelain. She ran a hand down her cheek, surprised by the silky smoothness beneath her fingers.

-If I'm going to survive here, I have to act like her. Like a real princess.

If she was going to play Anthea Rosengard, she needed to purify not only her actions, but her thinking as well.

She straightened up, trying to adopt that regal posture she had seen in the portraits. She lifted her chin carefully, narrowed her eyes slightly to project aristocratic distance.

Her reflection returned an expression that looked more... confused than imposing. Her cheeks, so smooth and fair-skinned, flushed slightly.

"Damn... I mean."

She stopped abruptly.

-Wait. Ladies don't say that. Think like a lady, act like a lady.-

She took a deep breath and relaxed her face, trying again. This time with less tension, more naturalness.

She decided to try her hand at poise. She straightened her back, placed her hands delicately intertwined in front of her. Her fingers, long and immaculate-skinned, looked appropriately elegant in that position.

She took a step forward.

Her small foot met a slight bump in the carpet beneath her.

He staggered, his arms flung out in a not at all graceful motion. He managed to regain his balance just in time, but his heart was racing with fright.

-For all the... No. Pure thoughts. Pure thoughts." She closed her eyes tightly, trying to calm herself. -A lady doesn't curse when she stumbles. A lady keeps her composure.

Her cheeks burned now, the blush spreading across her fair skin like rose petals on snow.

She tried again. She walked three steps. Four. Five.

She tried a graceful turn.

Too fast. Her golden hair swirled and ended up covering half her face. Silky tresses clung to her lips.

With a frustrated sigh-very inelegant, she had to admit-she pushed the hair away with her hand. The strands slipped through her fingers like silken threads, refusing to stay in place.

-Damn hair... No. Wonderful. A lady says 'wonderful' with subtle irony, not... the other thing.-.

She was constantly correcting herself now, censoring every thought that arose from her modern, unrefined mind.

He tried the nod as a silent greeting. She tilted her graceful neck to one side.

Her soft skin stretched delicately with the movement, but the posture felt unnatural. She blinked several times, losing all composure.

Finally she dropped into a nearby chair-more slump than sit-and stared at her reflection. Her cheeks still showed that delicate blush against her fair skin. Silver locks escaped from their place, framing her face in a haphazard but curiously lovely way.

She looked less like an ancient immortal half-dragon and more like a young noblewoman who had just lost a battle against her own wardrobe.

"Heavens."

She murmured softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with trembling fingers.

"This is going to be harder than I thought."

At least that last sentence had sounded appropriately aristocratic.

Small steps.

And so she spent the entire evening practicing.

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The next morning, Anthea finally achieved a result that satisfied her. A graceful turn, a proper head tilt, a walk that didn't look clumsy. Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

It was then that she noticed something disturbing: she had spent the whole night practicing.

All of it. The. Night.

And he didn't feel tired. Not even a little.

His muscles didn't ache. His eyes didn't burn. He hadn't yawned once. It was as if his body simply... didn't need rest.

"I guess this is part of the immortality package," he murmured, looking at his hands with renewed curiosity. "No physical fatigue. Convenient, if a bit unsettling."

He decided to go rest anyway. Maybe his body didn't need it, but his modern mind still had the habit ingrained.

But before that... the bathroom.

Anthea stopped in front of the door to the attached bathroom, feeling a wave of disturbance wash over her.

Her new body was that of a girl. She... he... had been a man before.

It was strange. Very strange.

But she had to bathe anyway. It was a habit she couldn't shake, and after a full night of physical practice, she felt the psychological need for clean water.

The bath was... an experience. Anthea tried not to think about it too much, focusing on the mechanics of the thing: warm water, soap that smelled of lavender and something vaguely floral, long hair that required much more effort than she remembered.

Her movements were efficient, clinical almost. She didn't want to dwell on the strangeness of it all.

She emerged from the bathroom with flushed cheeks, wrapped in a soft towel. She hurried to the closet and picked out a set of clothes identical to the one she had worn the day before. Apparently, the former Anthea had many matching outfits. Efficient and minimalist. That simplified things.

She dressed carefully, trying to maintain that elegance she had been practicing all night. The movements slow, deliberate. Nothing clumsy.

Finally she lay down on the bed, sinking into the incredibly soft mattress. She closed her eyes, ready to at least try to sleep.

Just then, she thought she heard a tapping on the door and a voice asking permission.

Probably because she was still a little embarrassed about the whole bathroom thing, Anthea answered without thinking:

"Come in."

The door opened and the same maid who had greeted her when she woke up in that world came in, carrying a tray with breakfast. The aroma of freshly baked bread and something sweet filled the room.

Anthea realized too late that she was lying in a completely unkempt position for someone of her supposed status. One leg dangling off the bed, hair strewn chaotically across the pillow, the posture relaxed and not at all regal.

She quickly sat up and sat on the bed with her back straight, trying to regain some composure.

The maid, as if she had seen nothing out of the ordinary, set the food down on the table beside the bed with smooth, perfectly executed movements.

"Does His Excellency need anything else?"

She asked with a perfect curtsy.

Anthea stood for a moment looking at the maid. Now that she analyzed them, the woman's movements were quite graceful. Each gesture was economical yet refined. The exact angle of the bow, the way she held the tray, how she kept her gaze respectfully low but not slavishly submissive.

This would help him with his practices. Watching someone who naturally lived in this aristocratic world.

Receiving no response, the maid looked up slightly, a bit confused.

"Your Grace?"

Anthea reacted, coughing softly into her hand.

"There is nothing else."

She said in a soft but firm voice.

The maid gave another curtsy and turned to leave.

But just before she reached the door, Anthea remembered something important.

"Wait."

The maid stopped immediately and turned around.

"Yes, Your Excellency?"

Anthea chose her words carefully, trying to sound casual but appropriately interested.

"The state of the Principality. Brief me on current affairs."