The early sun cut through the heavy velvet curtains, a sharp blade of gold that hit my face with unforgiving precision.
Subconsciously, I groaned and threw an arm over my eyes, trying to retreat back into the dark void of sleep. My head felt like it had been used as a drum in a marching band, and every muscle fiber was humming with a dull, residual ache.
"Mmm..."
I forced my eyes open, squinting against the brilliance. The golden light was practically aggressive, bouncing off the polished marble floors and gilded furniture like it was trying to blind me for my insolence.
"It is morning already?"
I croaked out the words to the empty room, but I wasn't entirely alone. The rhythmic chirp-chirp of two small birds sitting on a gnarled tree branch just outside the window served as my alarm clock.
I stared at them for a second. This world might be a chaotic sequel filled with predatory vampires and literal dragons, but apparently, the morning birds didn't get the memo. Their song was the only normal thing in this entire high-fantasy mess.
I sat up, the silk sheets sliding off my chest, and dragged myself toward the full-length mirror standing near the wardrobe. I needed to see exactly what I was working with.
As my reflection came into focus, I felt a pang of disappointment. Unlike my siblings—who looked like they had been airbrushed by a divine artist with their sapphire eyes and rainbow hair—I was... plain.
My hair was a flat, dull black, and my eyes held the same dark, unremarkable shade I'd had back in Pakistan. No glow, no magical flecks, just two dark pits of exhaustion.
Moreover, this body was terrifyingly skinny. As I looked at my reflection in the white shirt I'd slept in, my arms looked like literal sticks wrapped in expensive cloth. My collarbones protruded sharply, and my skin had a pale, translucent quality that screamed "malnourished."
'What was the original Rio doing to let himself get like this?' I wondered, a grim thought crossing my mind. 'I just hope it isn't what I think it is.'
I sighed, running a hand through my messy hair. Last night's dinner had been a psychological minefield. Laila had insulted me with a surgical elegance—the kind of backhanded "compliment" that leaves you bleeding without realizing you've been cut.
It was a weird, high-society style of bullying I couldn't quite put into words, but the message was clear: I was still a bug under their collective boots.
But, strangely, I didn't care much about the insults. In my old life, I'd dealt with worse from creditors and angry lecturers. As long as they weren't actively trying to set me on fire or drain my blood, I could handle a few mean words. While I was this weak, being invisible was my best defense.
"I just hope today won't be as messed up as yesterday," I muttered, stepping away from the mirror.
A sudden yawn left my mouth, stretching my jaw wide enough to crack. I was still a little bit sleepy, the kind of grogginess that feels like your brain is wrapped in cotton wool.
I'd stayed up far too late, staring at the shadows in the corners. I kept thinking that someone—maybe a silent assassin sent by a disgruntled mother or a bored sibling—would actually come and kill me while I was asleep.
But thinking about it now, it seemed I was worried for nothing. For now, the "Pervert Prince" wasn't even worth the effort of a nighttime assassination.
"I need to do something. I can't just keep sitting here doing nothing."
I said to myself, and sat back down on the edge of the bed, the springs letting out a faint groan.
The Pigeon screen had been explicit: the 'Hero' was coming to destroy the Aragon family. But that was the problem with these vague system alerts—they lacked a calendar.
Was the 'Main Plot' that was starting the final act? The part where the Hero, fully leveled up and glowing with righteous fury, kicks down the palace doors to decapitate us one by one?
Or was this the beginning, where he's still some farm boy in a remote village, swinging a wooden sword and training to get stronger?
The difference was everything. If it was the former, I was already dead. If it was the latter, I might have a window to find him—or better yet, find a way to not be a villain in his story.
Moreover, I don't even know what to do.
I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache brewing. In the first novel, the Dragon King was just a side character who appeared for some chapters.
But this was "Next Generation" mess where the power scaling was likely through the roof.
How am I supposed to save a family of apex predators who want me dead, from a Hero I can't even identify?
I looked around the room, searching for anything that could give me a lead. A map? A diary? The original Rio had to have had some kind of plan, even if it was just a plan to be a nuisance.
"If I'm an 'extra' in this story, then the plot shouldn't revolve around me," I whispered. "But the system is literally telling me to interfere. That means my survival is tied to the family's survival."
I stood up again, a bit more resolve in my step. I couldn't wait for the Hero to show up at my door. I needed information. I needed to know who my "real" mother was and why her lineage made everyone at that table look at me like I was a ticking time bomb.
I walked toward the door and pulled it open, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges. I knew exactly where I had to go to get information on the history of this family, and more importantly, my own origin. There was only one person in this den of monsters who seemed to treat me with a shred of civility, even if that civility felt like a thin layer of ice over a deep, dark ocean.
'Alvis.'
The Eldest Prince. The future King. He was the only one who didn't look at me with active disgust or predatory hunger.
I began to navigate the sprawling, labyrinthine hallways. The palace was alive now; servants scurried about like ants, their heads bowing so low when they saw me that I wondered if they were trying to inspect the floorboards.
But, at that time, I didn't know that... it would cost me more than I could afford to lose.