The flames were hungry.
They licked at the base of the wooden stake, crackling and hissing like serpents tasting blood. Smoke coiled into the heavens as a crowd watched with fevered eyes, their screams turning the capital square into a theatre of cruelty.
"Burn the witch!""Traitor to the Crown!""Let her be purged!"
Bound in iron chains, barefoot and trembling, Lady Seraphina Ashthorne stood at the center of it all—noble no more, dignity stripped, beauty smudged with ash and blood. Her long chestnut hair was tangled, her once-luminous gown now torn and darkened by soot.
She had always imagined dying in silence, with some last shred of nobility.
But this wasn't death. It was slaughter.
Across the square, on a balcony draped in royal silks, stood the man she once loved—Crown Prince Kael Valerius. His golden hair gleamed beneath the sun, and his arms held another woman.
Elira.
Her half-sister.
Her betrayer.
Elira wore white silk. Her white silk. Seraphina's bridal gown—custom-made for her once-future wedding to Kael—now clung to Elira's slim frame like an insult. The princess-to-be stared down with cool satisfaction, her lips curved into a perfect smile.
"She was never fit to be queen," Seraphina heard Elira's voice whisper in her mind. "Everything she had… was always meant for me."
Her fingers curled tightly around the shackles. Her body trembled—not with fear, but with rage. The flames began to bite at her bare feet, searing the flesh. The pain was indescribable, yet her eyes stayed locked on the two who had orchestrated her fall.
Not a single noble came to her defense. Not the Council. Not her friends. Not even her mother.
The empire she once protected now called her cursed.
A traitor.
A witch.
Her screams finally tore through her throat as fire engulfed her legs, but even through the agony, she thought only one thing:
Let me return. Let me do it all again. I will not be kind. I will not be blind. I will make them all pay.
And then—darkness.
But it was not the final darkness of death.
It was… cold.
A suffocating silence, as if the world had stopped breathing.
Then—
She gasped.
Air rushed into her lungs, her chest heaving violently. Sweat slicked her skin as her eyes flew open.
She wasn't in flames.
She wasn't even in pain.
Instead, she lay on a feather-soft mattress, draped in silk sheets. The scent of lavender water hung in the air. Her surroundings… familiar. The carved vanity, the crystal chandeliers, the pale cream walls adorned with hand-painted roses—
Her bedroom.
Her hands shot up to her face—smooth, youthful. No burn scars. No blood.
In disbelief, she stumbled toward the mirror. The reflection staring back was not the broken woman who had burned at the stake.
It was her younger self.
"No… no, this isn't possible…" she whispered.
A soft knock on the door.
"Young Lady? It's Mira. Shall I ready your gown for the Duchess's birthday banquet?"
Mira.
Her maid.
The one who died trying to shield her from the flames.
Tears sprang to Seraphina's eyes.
She wasn't dead.
She was back.
Hours later, the Ashthorne estate buzzed with nobles attending her stepmother's grand banquet. But Seraphina didn't wear her usual pastel dresses or jeweled tiara.
She descended the grand staircase in a flowing black velvet gown, hair pinned high, eyes sharp.
Gasps followed her like whispers.
"Why is she in mourning?""Is that appropriate?""She looks… different."
Yes. She was different.
She was alive again. But she was no longer the kind, obedient daughter of House Ashthorne.
This time, she wasn't playing anyone's pawn.
Her eyes scanned the crowd—and found him.
Prince Kael.
He approached with that same smug confidence, a gold chalice in hand.
"Seraphina," he said smoothly, "you're stunning tonight. Although, black is a bold choice."
"Isn't it?" she replied, tilting her head. "It suits mourning. Or perhaps warning."
He blinked. "Warning?"
She offered a smile. Sweet. Empty. "You'll understand soon enough."
Kael gave a stiff laugh. "You're quite mysterious today."
"I've always been mysterious," she said softly. "You simply never looked closely."
The banquet continued. Nobles gossiped. Wine flowed. But Seraphina's mind was already miles ahead.
Tomorrow, she would break off her royal engagement—publicly.
Next week, she would write to a man feared even by the emperor himself.
The Duke of Ravenhollow.
Lucien Nightbane.
Known as the empire's bloodstained blade. A man whispered to be cursed—his heart stopped once every full moon, yet he lived on.
A monster, they said.
Seraphina no longer feared monsters.
She would become one.