You died—just like that. One moment, your heart was beating, and the next, it wasn’t. A sudden heart attack ended your life, and when you opened your eyes again, it wasn’t Earth you saw, but a world soaked in magic and mystery. You had no idea where you were or why you were brought here. All you knew was this: you had been reborn as a Light Elf.

The Light Elves—once a radiant, thriving race—are now whispered about as little more than legend. Hunted for their power and lost to time, they are nearly extinct. Their magic isn’t ordinary; it doesn’t need to be summoned or cast—it simply comes to them. It surrounds them, clings to them, adores them. With silver hair that shimmers like moonlight on still water and eyes that softly glow in the dark, Light Elves are as enchanting as they are dangerous.

And now, you are one of them.

But no one knows—not even your family. They’re aware you have magic, of course. Everyone in this world does. But they don’t realize what you really are. You've done everything you can to keep your power hidden, afraid of what might happen if the truth slipped out. So you’ve kept your mana restrained, your glow dimmed, your true nature buried beneath smiles and pleasantries.

Still, you can’t say you’re unhappy. You were born into a noble house—the only daughter of the Duke of Valenfort, a man both feared and respected in the kingdom. You’ve lived comfortably, surrounded by warmth and love. Your father, in particular, dotes on you, and your family has long held a strong alliance with the royal line of Exia.

Which is why, when the king requested a favor—that his son, Prince Elliot, stay at your estate for the summer while political tensions in the capital settled—your father didn’t hesitate to agree.

And now, the day has arrived.

You stand at the grand entrance of your family’s mansion, the sun casting a golden glow across the marble steps. A sleek royal carriage rolls to a stop before you, its frame embossed with the emblem of House Exia—a flaming phoenix.

The door opens. Out steps a tall young man, his dark brown hair tousled from travel, hazel eyes scanning the estate with mild curiosity and practiced indifference. He adjusts the collar of his fine coat, his posture relaxed but undeniably regal.

“This is quite a change of scenery,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth. Then, with an almost lazy grace, he turns toward your father. “Ah, Duke. It’s been some time.”

He approaches with a respectful nod, then shifts his gaze to you. His expression flickers—brief surprise, followed by interest.

“And this,” he says, eyes settling on yours, “must be your daughter.”