10,000 Years Too Late

Dana, still struggling to think of herself as Jennersen Salvarose, lingered in the corridor just outside the ballroom. Through the crack in the heavy double doors, she could glimpse shifting figures in fine robes, hear a subdued hum of conversation occasionally spiked by bright laughter. A light haze of ash-lantern smoke and incense drifted under the door, mingling with the subtle perfume of fresh flowers. This was a gathering of the highest order—and she was meant to be its star.

Her borrowed body itched beneath formal silks embroidered with the Salvarose crest: a stylized suture crossing a slender steel blade, symbolizing the surgical prowess her family was known for. The air felt heavy with more than just incense—it was expectation, curiosity, and a host of unspoken tensions. She took one last, steadying breath, then slid her palm against the door handle.

Keep calm. Walk in with confidence.

No matter what they've heard about 'Jennersen,' you mustn't confirm their worst fears, she reminded herself.

She eased the door open. Voices stilled. Those nearest turned to look, and a ripple of attention spread out like a wave across the ballroom. The polished marble floors, golden braziers, and meticulously arranged banners proclaimed House Salvarose's prominence. Under the vaulted ceiling, the city's most influential doctors, surgeons, and scholars were assembled in small clusters, each dressed in immaculate finery.

Dana felt her heart hammering in her chest, but she kept her posture measured—chin level, shoulders back. The silence stretched, then broke into polite applause. Several guests bowed or inclined their heads just enough to acknowledge her station without overdoing it. She forced a subdued smile and gave a slight nod in return.

Mira stood nearby, half-hidden behind a pillar draped in embroidered banners. Their eyes met for the briefest moment. The faintest flicker of a nod from Mira told Dana that, yes, everything was in motion. If she needed more intel, she would have to find a way to slip off discreetly.

For now, though, she had the opposite problem: the entire room waited for her to step forward and be recognized. Dana swallowed. Right, she thought, time to begin.

She advanced into the ballroom. Conversations resumed in low tones as she progressed, but there remained a tight ring of space around her, as if no one dared come too close uninvited. Over her shoulder, she could just glimpse the tall windows, half-covered with heavy curtains that let in the faint smell of nighttime ash drifting outside.

Suddenly, a pair of elegantly dressed figures detached from the crowd and approached. Doctor Vaius Thresh and Doctor Meridia Voss of the Operating Theatre, each in pristine white robes with embroidered pathos emblems near the cuffs. Their expressions were politely controlled, neither warm nor cold.

"Lady Jennersen," Thresh said smoothly. A faint bow.

"Your recovery is most… admirable," added Voss, choosing her words with clinical care, as if evaluating a post-surgery success.

Dana dipped her head in a respectful nod. "I'm grateful for the city's excellent care," she replied. The old Jennersen might have ridiculed their formalities—Dana instead matched their calm, polite tone.

They each offered polite inquiries about her health without prying into the how of her survival. She noticed how they avoided even the lightest physical contact, gloved hands folded discreetly at their waists. The Operating Theatre's highest echelons were rumored to treat any unsanitary gesture—like a handshake—as deplorable.

"We do hope," said Thresh, "this event allows us to… secure further dialogue with your father."

"I'm sure he will be delighted to speak with you." If you can corner him, Dana silently thought, wondering if Daylor planned to keep these doctors waiting all night. She gave a small, vague smile, and with that, they bowed again and retreated.

A moment later, another cluster drew near—three uniformed Incisors led by Chief Surgeon Kaine. Their attire, though formal, carried distinct martial notes: starched collars, belts with small pouches for surgical tools, each uniform crisp white offset by fine lines of black trim. Their approach was slow and deliberate.

"My lady," Kaine said, his voice low and respectful, though his stance suggested disciplined readiness. "We rejoice at your renewed strength."

Dana offered an equally brief greeting, mindful that the Incisors were Daylor's staunch supporters—at least in public. "Thank you for your concern," she said, letting no trace of sarcasm slip through. The old Jennersen might have rolled her eyes at "hunters" who specialized in culling diseased wards. Instead, Dana maintained her neutral mask.

Chief Surgeon Kaine gave a curt nod. His hawk-like gaze flicked around the ballroom. "We hope this evening fosters unity for the city's sake." He wasn't asking for her stance so much as declaring one. She responded with a polite tilt of the head, and they moved on.

Dana's Axis terminal flickered at the edge of her vision, highlighting a group of robed figures stepping into the ballroom. The Terminal Society. Where the Operating Theatre boasted immaculate robes and the Incisors wore starched uniforms, these newcomers had simpler, well-worn academic garments. They approached in an easy, fluid manner, clearly more at home exchanging scholarly ideas than high-society pleasantries.

A slender man at the forefront, Professor Alden Ward, made a measured half-bow. "Lady Salvarose," he said gently, "it warms us all to witness your… triumphant return." He spoke as though referencing some daring expedition—perhaps ironically apt, considering what the real Jennersen had faced in the failed raid.

"Thank you, Professor," Dana replied, scanning the small group. She recalled from her reading that the Terminal Society was locked in a perpetual struggle for funding and independence. "I hope you find this evening a fruitful opportunity."

Their polite nods conveyed cautious appreciation. "We remain ever curious about your father's perspective on deeper research access," Ward ventured. "Your recovery, too—it might yield… interesting data, no?" His eyes shone with the hunger of an academic wanting a fresh case study.

Dana fought to keep her smile from turning strained. No, you can't dissect me for your data. "I've yet to speak in-depth with Father," she lied gracefully, "but I'm sure tonight's discourse will be illuminating."

They thanked her with another small bow and drifted off. She exhaled discreetly, relieved that so far, no one had openly challenged her or demanded immediate answers she couldn't provide.

Barely had the Terminal Society departed when Mother Superior Helena and two Nursemaidens, their veils framing pale faces, approached with a silent grace. They offered a shallow bow, hands placed delicately over the embroidered hearts on their robes.

"Your strength brings hope," Helena said softly, her voice carrying a quiet conviction.

Dana returned a courteous nod, remembering from her reading that the Nursemaidens advocated for more humane child-rearing in noble houses, sometimes stepping on the Operating Theatre's toes. She sensed no hostility here—only a silent plea for Daylor's ear. "Thank you. This world rests on many shoulders, including yours," she replied gently.

Helena's eyes flickered with something akin to relief. "We do what we can." She hesitated. "Your father's… subtle mercies in the outlying districts have not gone unnoticed." The words were pitched low enough that the prying ears of other guests wouldn't catch them.

It took Dana a second to realize Helena was referencing Daylor's support for less aggressive culling in certain plague-ridden areas. "He has always cared more than some would believe," she ventured, unsure how far to go.

A small, hopeful smile crossed Helena's face before she and her companions withdrew, leaving Dana with a warmer sensation that at least someone here believed House Salvarose capable of compassion.

Moving on, Dana encountered a small huddle of Estimators—ledger-carrying individuals who offered timid bows. One, adjusting thick-rimmed spectacles, said, "We're, ah, pleased to see you… on your feet, my lady." They quickly steered the conversation to mortality data, hoping Daylor might see the importance of timely, unfiltered statistics. She recognized their anxious sincerity, acknowledging, "Data is indeed vital for wise decisions."

Then came the Eugenicists, flanked by Doctor Emil Thane, who greeted her with chilling politeness. Their compliments felt unnerving, referencing her "prime genetic attributes." Dana's stomach tightened, but she maintained her mask. "Your remarks flatter House Salvarose," she said, forcing a measured tone.

"We hope your father will champion forward-thinking approaches," Dr. Thane purred, lightly alluding to selective breeding programs. "And your own triumphant survival… it testifies to certain exceptional lineages."

Dana gave a shallow nod, uneasy at the conversation's undertone. She couldn't overtly oppose them—at least not yet. Inwardly, she shuddered.

All the while, Dana's Axis terminal sporadically flagged individuals who seemed to hover too near. She spotted Mira across the room, half-concealed behind tall decorative plants. The aide gestured subtly—once, twice. Her face was tense, eyes saying: We need to talk. Dana's pulse quickened. Has she discovered who blocked the governess? Or maybe something else is brewing?

She prepared to slip away, but a hush fell over the crowd—Daylor Salvarose had entered. The swirl of conversation parted as the head of the household emerged, wearing pristine robes with the Salvarose crest. All eyes turned to him, and he in turn fixed his gaze on his daughter.

He approached with a careful expression—neither smiling nor scowling. The hush deepened. They stood face-to-face, father and daughter, under the watchful eyes of a hundred curious onlookers.

"Jennersen," he said quietly, voice carrying more than a hint of scrutiny. "I see you're… managing the welcomes quite well."

"Yes, Father," Dana replied, her voice lowered to match his. "I've tried to greet our guests properly."

His gaze flicked to the crowd, returning swiftly. "Keep it up. Tonight matters more than you know."

She dipped her head. "I understand." A subtle nod from Daylor; a swirl of relief or wariness glinted in his eyes. Then, bowing to the room, he turned to accept greetings from the major delegates. Dana exhaled, tension rippling through her shoulders. No meltdown, no open scolding. So far, so good.

But she caught a glimpse of Mira again, fidgeting behind those ornate plants, eyes bright with urgency. Something was definitely wrong. Dana had to find a discreet moment to break away and hear what the aide discovered before it was too late.

The night's only half-begun, Dana thought grimly, smoothing her embroidered sleeve. And everything is riding on it.

Dana—still the noble Jennersen Salvarose in this borrowed body—kept a polite smile plastered on her lips as her father, Daylor Salvarose, turned to greet the next cluster of influential guests. Around them, the grand hall's energy had shifted, conversation now humming with anticipation. Every faction seemed eager for a moment alone with Daylor. Behind their polished niceties, Dana sensed a collective tension—like watchers at a joust, waiting to see who would break first.

She pretended to study the ornate architecture as she inched away from the main circle, careful not to draw notice. The swirl of embroidered sleeves and hushed chatter provided enough cover to slip toward Mira. The young aide still hovered near the potted ferns, her face drawn with anxiety.

"My lady," Mira said quietly as Dana drew close, dipping a dutiful curtsy that was all too rigid.

"Mira," Dana acknowledged. "What is it? You look worried."

Mira hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one overheard. "I've… found something. About the governess. And there's more."

Dana's borrowed heart gave a sudden jolt. More? "Tell me quickly."

Mira leaned in, voice low enough to be swallowed by the party's buzz. "The staff is gossiping that Master Romern—your brother—gave an order at the gate early this morning. He didn't want the governess entering, so the guards turned her away. He claimed it was for 'public health reasons' or something about security, but everyone suspects it was… personal. Perhaps an attempt to sabotage you."

Dana's mind spun. She remembered from the library that Romern was an Incisor with a perfectionist streak—proud of his own surgical prowess and fiercely protective of House Salvarose's image. But why sabotage my training? A cold possibility: if he believed the "new" Jennersen might humiliate the family, he could use that failure to push Daylor toward more brutal solutions or align with certain factions. Or maybe he simply distrusted his sister's sudden survival.

"And the more?" Dana prompted.

Mira swallowed. "I overheard staff from the upper floors. They said someone—they didn't name who—requested an 'incident' tonight. Something that would 'expose' you in front of the guests." Her eyes flicked to Dana's face. "That's all I got. But it sounds like they want to force a scandal."

Dana felt a chill prickle across her borrowed skin. A scandal… or an engineered fiasco. Something to undermine House Salvarose's legitimacy, or specifically to ruin Jennersen's standing.

"Thank you, Mira," she whispered, carefully keeping a calm facade. "Stay vigilant. Let me know if you see or hear anything else."

Mira's tense nod said she'd do just that, then she slipped back into the crowd, leaving Dana alone with the weight of newly sharpened suspicions: Romern was behind the governess's removal. He likely wanted her unprepared for this event. But was he also behind the rumored "incident"? Or did another rival faction plan to exploit the chaos?

Dana's swirl of uneasy thoughts was interrupted by the harried figure of a footman weaving through the hall. She recognized him as one of the servants who'd been setting out wine. He arrived at her side, breathless and red-faced.

"M-my lady," he stammered, bowing low. "The… the Salvarose vintage casks. They—" He paused, swallowing hard. "They've gone missing from the cellar!"

Missing? The casks presumably contained a rare ceremonial wine used for the formal Salvarose toast, a highlight of the night. She forced herself to remain outwardly composed. "Are you certain?"

He bobbed his head frantically. "We locked them, but the store is empty now. The guards have no record of it leaving the premises. None of the staff saw a delivery cart."

Dana's instincts flared. So this is how they want to humiliate me—by spoiling the family's signature toast? Many expected "Jennersen" to preside over the ritual pouring. If the wine was gone, it would be a glaring failure in front of Daylor's important guests. She scanned the room for signs of sabotage but saw only polite smiles and half-lidded eyes.

"Inform the head butler," she said quietly, "and keep searching. Discreetly. Let me know if you find any leads."

The footman bowed again and hurried off. Dana exhaled, nerves buzzing. A missing cask might seem trivial compared to sabotage at a grand party, but House Salvarose prided itself on its tradition-laced ceremonies. This fiasco could become an embarrassment swiftly.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Romern Salvarose appeared at her elbow. He wore the crisp white attire of an Incisor, with a small emblem of House Salvarose pinned near his collar. His gaze flicked over her, assessing. Dana tried not to betray her anger at learning he'd turned away the governess.

"Dear sister," Romern said, voice low but audible. "How fares our shining star this evening?"

Her Axis terminal fed her a few quick notes: Romern Salvarose. Reputation: stern Incisor, unwavering loyalty to the Salvarose name, rumored clash with Daylor on policy. She forced a polite smile. "Well enough. You're busier than me, I see."

He shrugged, eyes cold. "Someone must keep the city's rot from spreading." His lips twisted in a ghost of a smile. "I hear father's toasting your survival. A pity if anything prevented that ritual."

Dana's heart pounded. So he knows about the cask's disappearance already? Or is he behind it? She studied him carefully, searching for tells. But Romern's face remained unreadable. "I assume your presence ensures everything remains orderly," she ventured, her voice thinly cordial.

"Of course," he murmured. "We can't have any unfortunate… disruptions." Then he inclined his head slightly. "Apologies about the governess. She was incompetent, unsuited to the cause."

There it was—a direct confession that he turned her away. Dana's anger flashed. "I see. It's unfortunate. I would have liked her help."

Romern gave a dismissive shrug. "If you truly care about father's success, you'll manage without coddling." He spoke in a low, precise tone so none nearby could overhear. "After all, the Salvarose name is strong. We can't afford weaknesses. I trust you remember that."

Before she could respond, he moved off, every inch a disciplined Incisor. Dana stood there a moment, fists curling. He wants me to fail… so I can't overshadow him? Or because the Operating Theatre's politics could shift if I make father look incompetent?

A gentle chime sounded from the dais at the room's front, where one of Daylor's aides signaled the official Salvarose toast was about to begin. Guests gathered, forming a semicircle. Daylor, now in place near a tall stand draped with the family crest, glanced around, presumably expecting the vintage casks to be rolled in.

"If you'd all be so kind," he said with a courtly nod, "House Salvarose invites you to share a brief toast to our daughter's recovery and to the continued health of Sveethlad."

A short murmur of appreciation arose. Several footmen looked around nervously, no casks in sight. Dana felt a clammy sensation creeping over her. They haven't found it yet…

Daylor caught her gaze, a silent question: Where is the wine?

She stepped forward, forcing composure. "Honored guests," she began, voice carrying across the hush. "We are—" She paused, glimpsing a pair of wide-eyed servants near the side door, shaking their heads frantically. They still hadn't located the casks. Time to stall.

"—we are grateful for your presence this night," she continued smoothly, "and for the unwavering support you've shown House Salvarose, especially in such challenging times…" She allowed a small, meaningful pause, scanning the crowd for any sign of guilt or triumphant smirks. Romern, or someone else?

She improvised. "While we wait for the final… finishing touches, I'd like to share a few words on behalf of my father." A ripple of intrigued murmurs. She had no script, but her Axis terminal quietly prompted generic points: talk about House Salvarose's dedication to healing, mention the party's symbolic unity. She wove these into a quick speech:

"Our tradition of healing is not merely heritage; it is our promise to Sveethlad. Tonight's celebration stands as proof that even when the city faces its darkest ailments, we rise with compassion. My father, Daylor Salvarose, has championed efforts to bring resources to the outer districts. He stands firm in the belief that every life—however poor or sick—matters." She exhaled softly. "And though we lost many to the Undawild raid, we learned from it. We must unify, not cast blame."

It was a message of modest humility and inclusive healing—nothing like the old Jennersen's arrogance. Some watchers exchanged puzzled looks. Others nodded, intrigued. Daylor himself seemed surprised, but not displeased.

The hush grew thick, as if the entire hall waited for the casks to materialize behind her.

Just as Dana felt her voice drying up, a footman hurried in from a side door, half-pushing a gleaming cart with two heavy casks atop it. He looked disheveled, sweaty, and profoundly relieved.

"My lady," he called softly. "We've secured it… found in the… west courtyard."

He rolled the casks to the dais, stepping back with an apologetic bow. The crowd noticed no more than a slight delay—Dana's improvised speech had bridged the gap perfectly. A low wave of polite relief and curiosity flowed through the guests.

Dana allowed herself a small, internal sigh of thanks. Her father motioned for her to continue. She signaled for the footmen to tap the casks, and soon, wine poured into a ring of silver goblets arranged on a tray. Each delegate would receive a cup.

"We raise a toast," she proclaimed, summoning her last ounce of composure, "to resilience. To the steadfast alliances that keep this city breathing. And to those who stand for life… even in a realm cloaked by ash."

With that, she lifted her goblet. The entire assembly followed suit, and a gentle chorus of "Hear, hear" rose. The wine itself, a unique Salvarose vintage, tinted a deep red under the hall's lantern light.

Dana sipped. Not sabotage, not rancid. She noted with relief that the wine tasted smooth. So they just hid the casks. Possibly to cause a fiasco. But we averted it. From the corner of her eye, she saw Romern's jaw tighten.

Applause rippled, the tension dissolving into the usual gentle hum of post-toast conversation. Dana and Daylor exchanged the briefest glance. He's impressed I handled that, she guessed. He must be suspicious how I managed it. But for now, no time to question.

Guests set their empty cups down, some drifting back into private clusters. Others approached Dana to compliment her short speech. She fielded their comments with a modest, "I only spoke from the heart." The Operating Theatre delegates looked thoughtful; Incisors more reserved. The Nursemaidens cast her grateful smiles. The Eugenicists studied her like a specimen of interest.

At last, Dana excused herself from the dais area. Mira slipped into step beside her, still scanning for eavesdroppers. In a quiet corner behind a tall tapestry, Mira whispered, "We found the casks stashed under tarps in the courtyard. The men who found them said… it was done recently, maybe just minutes before you arrived. So they intended you to fail in front of everyone."

Dana exhaled, trembling with residual adrenaline. "But we pulled through. Good work." She laid a hand on Mira's shoulder—gently, so as not to scare her. "Thank you."

"What now?" Mira asked, brow furrowed.

Dana's Axis terminal flickered: it displayed an "objective update," reminding her that she'd passed a social obstacle. She suppressed a grim smile. "Now, we keep watch. Whoever orchestrated this will try again. But at least we know Romern wanted me unprepared. Could be him or… someone else."

Mira nodded, swallowing her fear. "Should I keep listening?"

"Yes, please," Dana said softly. "We might still have a final crisis if they're determined to make me look incompetent. Let me know if you catch any signs."

Over the next hour, Dana circulated the ballroom more confidently. Each faction leader seemed relieved the toast succeeded, yet many gave her curious, measured stares: Is this truly the infamous Jennersen? She offered them a calm front, every inch the changed noble daughter.

Professor Alden Ward discreetly congratulated her on an "eloquent speech."Chief Surgeon Kaine gave a half-nod, acknowledging she'd averted disaster.Dr. Emil Thane of the Eugenicists eyed her with unnerving fascination, as if mentally dissecting her "genetic prowess" once again.Mother Superior Helena smiled encouragingly, as though silently saying, You've shown mercy can triumph.

Daylor Salvarose, too, partook in the renewed social mingling, fielding the factions' proposals. From across the hall, he occasionally regarded Dana with a tight-lipped half-smile—approval tinted by suspicion. But for tonight, it seemed no direct confrontation would mar his or his daughter's reputation.

Toward the evening's end, as the guests gradually trickled out, Dana paused at the edge of the dance floor, looking out a tall window onto the manse's courtyard below. A swirl of faint ash-lantern glow reflected on the glass. We survived, she thought, exhaustion creeping in. But for how long?

Behind her, footsteps approached: Mira again. The aide gave a short bow, then quietly reported, "No further sabotage discovered. The staff are settling down. Your father's… quite occupied with the Operating Theatre folks now."

Dana nodded, too weary to hide her relief. "Then let's call tonight a success. At least openly." She offered Mira a tentative smile. "Thank you. I couldn't have pulled it off alone."

Mira looked uncertain, still not entirely trusting. Yet there was a glint of something like cautious respect. "We were… both lucky, my lady. But if you truly aim to fix House Salvarose from inside…" She trailed off, chewing her lip. "Maybe I can keep helping."

Dana inclined her head, a wave of gratitude she couldn't fully express. "I'd like that."

Mira hesitated only an instant before dipping into a final, half-relaxed curtsy and melting back into the departing crowd. Dana closed her eyes, letting out the breath she'd been holding. One small step, she thought. But a real step.

The music had quieted to a murmur, the lights growing softer as final goodbyes and polite goodnights were exchanged. Dana's borrowed body ached from tension; her mind buzzed with worry. She thought of the sabotage that almost toppled her, the rift with Romern, the labyrinth of alliances swirling around House Salvarose. Yet she had navigated the night, forging a fragile new image for "Jennersen."

"A success in social terms," the Axis terminal noted at the edge of her vision, awarding small experience. "Primary sabotage averted."

Dana stared at that text, realization washing over her. She'd never asked for political skill or cunning in her old life, yet here she was, living an aristocratic role more vital than she could have imagined. I only hope the others—Riley, Shen, Hayazaki—are faring as well. A pang of longing struck her. Where are they right now?

A brisk voice behind her made her turn. One of her father's senior aides, wearing the Salvarose crest, bowed politely. "Your father requests your presence, my lady. The final negotiations with Operating Theatre delegates, Incisors, and others will begin shortly in his study. He'd like you to attend."

Dana mustered a resolute nod. So the real negotiations begin, she mused. The night's biggest challenge wasn't the toast or the saboteur's trick—but the labyrinthine deals about to shape Sveethlad's future. And she, a newcomer behind Jennersen's eyes, would walk straight into the core of House Salvarose's power.

"Lead the way," she said, voice steady despite her pulse pounding.

With that, she followed the aide into a dim corridor leading beyond the ballroom. The party might be winding down, but for Dana, the labyrinth of politics and subterfuge was only just opening before her. As she disappeared into the corridor's gloom, a whisper of unwavering determination filled her thoughts:

I'm not who they think I am, but I'll do my damnedest to protect this world… starting with House Salvarose tonight.