Rebirth of the Phantom Empress

Chapter 2: Embers of Power

The kitchen was a battlefield of chaos and neglect. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burnt grease and spoiled meat, mingling with the faint sweetness of overripe fruit. The hearth, once the heart of the room, now smouldered weakly, its embers barely clinging to life. Dust clung to every surface, and the cracked stone floor was littered with scraps of food and broken crockery. This was not a place of nourishment—it was a monument to decay, a reflection of the rot that festered in Lady Mirva's household.

Selene stood in the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the room with quiet calculation. This was where Mirva had sent her to clean, a task meant to humiliate her, to remind her of her place. But Selene saw it for what it truly was: an opportunity.

"Know your surroundings. Learn your enemy's habits. Wait for the right moment to strike."

It was a lesson she had learned long ago, in another life, when she had been Princess Elara Veylan, the Phantom Empress. Back then, she had wielded armies and commanded nations. Now, she wielded a scrub brush and a bucket of filthy water. But the principles were the same. Power was not always about strength; it was about strategy. And Selene was a master strategist.

A sharp voice cut through the silence.

"You! Girl!"

Selene turned her head slightly. A plump, middle-aged woman with a face like a thundercloud stood behind the counter, her apron stained with years of grease and grime. Her name was Greta, the head maid, and she ruled the kitchen with an iron fist.

"You're slower than a slug," Greta snapped, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're here to work, not stand around like a ghost. Get moving!"

Selene blinked, then lowered her gaze, feigning submission. "Yes," she murmured, stepping forward.

Greta shoved a bucket toward her, the water sloshing over the rim. "Scrub the floors first. And if I see a single speck of dirt left behind, you won't be eating tonight."

Selene dipped her head, gripping the bucket. "Understood."

Greta huffed, muttering under her breath about "useless brats" as she turned away. Selene watched her go, her expression unreadable. The woman was a bully, but she was also a tool—one Selene could use to her advantage.

She knelt on the cold stone floor, dipping the brush into the water. As she began to scrub, her mind worked quickly, piecing together the fragments of information she had gathered over the past few hours and the scattered memories of the original Selene.

This household was weak.

Lady Mirva ruled through fear, but fear was a fragile thing. It could be broken or shattered with the right pressure. The servants hated her, but they were too afraid to act. Selene could see it in their eyes, in the way they flinched at the sound of Mirva's voice, in the way they whispered behind closed doors.

They were ripe for rebellion. They just needed a leader.

And Selene intended to be that leader.

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*The First Spark*

As the hours dragged on, Selene's muscles ached from the relentless labour, but she paid it no mind. The pain was temporary. Weakness was temporary. She had endured far worse in her past life, and she would endure far worse in this one if it meant reclaiming what was hers.

The other servants barely spoke to her, either too afraid or too indifferent to bother. Only one seemed to take any notice of her—a boy, perhaps a year younger than her, with shaggy brown hair and nervous grey eyes. His name was Riven, and he moved through the kitchen like a shadow, always watching, always listening.

"You… you should slow down," he whispered as he passed by, carrying a stack of plates. "Your hands are already raw."

Selene glanced at her fingers. The skin was red and irritated, but she felt nothing. Pain was an old friend, one she had learned to ignore long ago.

She looked up at him. "What's your name?"

He hesitated. "Riven."

"How long have you worked here?"

Riven blinked, surprised by the question. "Since I was small. My mother was a servant before me."

A house-born servant, then. He knew the inner workings of the estate better than most.

Useful.

"Does Lady Mirva treat all her servants this way?" she asked, keeping her voice soft as if she were merely curious.

Riven tensed, his eyes darting around the room. "Don't talk about that," he muttered. "It's dangerous."

Selene didn't press further. She had learned enough for now.

She let him walk away, filing his reaction in her mind. He wasn't loyal to Mirva—just afraid. Fear was an easy thing to manipulate.

She would remember that.

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*A Glimpse of Power*

That night, when the chores were finally finished, Selene was sent back to her room without supper. The other servants cast her pitying glances, but she ignored them. She didn't need their pity. She needed their loyalty.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her face was still pale, her body still weak. But her eyes—her eyes burned with purpose.

She pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes.

Her magic.

Had it followed her into this life?

Elara had once wielded powerful magic, an ancient bloodline inheritance long thought extinct. She had been able to command flames, bend shadows, and unravel spells with a mere thought. But in this body…

She focused.

At first, there was nothing. Just silence.

But then—a flicker.

Deep within her, something stirred. A tiny ember, barely there, but unmistakable.

Her eyes snapped open, and for a brief moment, the candlelight in her room flickered wildly as if answering her call.

Selene's lips curled into a slow smile.

Her power wasn't gone. It was simply buried.

Dormant.

Waiting to be awakened.

She exhaled, the ghost of a laugh escaping her lips.

Let them underestimate her. Let them believe she was nothing.

By the time they realized the truth…

It would already be too late.

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