After giving her a brief once-over, the physician simply muttered a few words and turned to leave.
"It's just a bit swollen. Ice it."
…That's it?
Anastaria blinked in disbelief. That was the full diagnosis? No complicated prescriptions? No elaborate rituals? No dramatic warnings about her "delicate constitution"?
She was stunned.
Wasn't he afraid of her? The real Anastaria had a reputation for throwing fits over lukewarm tea—yet this guy treated her like an annoying bump on a log.
Still, she wasn't exactly disappointed. His indifference meant one very important thing: she could finally eat.
Her gaze dropped to the breakfast tray beside her, and her soul practically left her body.
A golden, fluffy omelet—stuffed with caramelized onions, smoked mushrooms, and a generous amount of melting cheese—glistened in the morning light. Beside it sat a stack of miniature honey-glazed rolls, still warm, with a small dish of whipped cinnamon butter melting at the edges.
Fresh fruit glistened in a crystal bowl—sliced pears, purple grapes, and something that looked suspiciously like a spirit-enhanced peach, glowing faintly pink at the core.
And to top it off, a small pot of dark, fragrant tea sat nearby, steam curling like lazy smoke.
Anastaria's mouth watered. Her stomach growled so loudly it was practically a declaration of war.
She didn't waste another second.
"Sorry, real Anastaria," she muttered under her breath, picking up a fork. "But if you wanted to keep your image, you shouldn't have reincarnated into someone this hungry."
When was the last time she'd had a meal like this?
Back in her old life, it was always the same—instant ramen, if she was lucky. Cold noodles and off-brand broth had been her daily ritual. But now? Now she had a real breakfast. A royal feast.
And she wasn't about to waste a single bite.
True to her word, she did not hold back.
Fork in hand, Anastaria devoured the food like a woman possessed. She tore into the omelet, inhaled the rolls, and practically drank the tea straight from the pot. Dignity? Gone. Grace? Left at the door. Survival mode? Fully activated.
The maid standing nearby could only watch—speechless.
"Miss… no one's going to take it from you," she said gently, laughing a little. "You can take your time."
She meant it kindly, but there was something else behind her words—a flicker of confusion. Caution.
Because this… wasn't what she'd expected at all.
This young lady was supposed to be terrifying. Cold. Cruel. The kind of person who ordered a servant's dismissal over lukewarm soup. That's what everyone said, anyway.
But this?
This was a girl stuffing her face with glowing peaches and buttered bread like she hadn't eaten in a week. The terrifying Miss Anastaria Noir was chewing with puffed cheeks and murmuring "so good" between bites.
The maid tilted her head slightly, watching her.
Had people exaggerated the rumors? Or was this some sort of temporary madness?
Still… there was something oddly harmless about her. Maybe even—dare she think it—a little adorable.
After everything had been thoroughly licked clean, Anastaria flopped back onto the bed with all the grace of a dying fish. She let out a loud, unapologetic burp and rubbed her stomach with satisfaction.
None of it went unnoticed by the maid, of course.
Sensing eyes on her, Anastaria glanced to the side—and sure enough, the girl was watching. Their eyes met. The maid quickly looked away, flustered.
Anastaria tilted her head in thought.
Navigating this world alone would be a headache. What she needed was a friend.
She lifted a finger and crooked it toward the maid.
"Come here."
The girl stiffened like she'd just been caught stealing. After a moment's hesitation, she stepped closer, standing at the side of the bed.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss?" she asked, hands neatly folded in front of her.
"What's your name?" Anastaria asked, eyeing her.
"M-My name?" the maid stammered, then quickly corrected herself. "My name is Nami, Miss."
"Nami?" Anastaria repeated, testing the sound. "It suits you."
Her words were genuine. The girl had short, neat black hair and a pair of soft, pale green eyes. Her features were delicate—almost doll-like—and her face was small and pretty in a way that felt oddly calming to look at.
"How old are you?" Anastaria asked next.
"I'm seventeen, Miss."
So she was only a year younger than her.