The first thing Elara Ashvine noticed was the scent of pine sap.
Sharp, sweet, and utterly familiar.
The second was the sensation of cool soil pressed against her back, damp leaves sticking to her arms, and sunlight dappling her closed eyelids like falling gold.
The third—the one that made her breath catch—was the memory.
A spear. Blood. Silver eyes. The word unworthy.
Her eyes snapped open.
Above her, a canopy of green swayed gently in the morning breeze. Sunlight pierced the leaves in slanted beams, illuminating floating motes of dust and pollen. The forest sang softly—birds chirping, insects humming, leaves rustling like whispers.
She lay still for a moment, heart hammering against her ribs.
Alive.
But she remembered dying.
The pain hadn't been metaphorical. She remembered the way her blood had pooled beneath her, the way her limbs had gone cold. She remembered the voice—his voice—declaring her failure like it was a prophecy.
And yet here she was. Whole. Breathing. Her fingers flexed in the earth, testing for pain. Nothing.
She sat up slowly.
The clearing around her was small and familiar—Sunshadow Pines. Just down the slope from Hollowbrook. She could practically smell chimney smoke if she concentrated.
Except… the trees were thinner. The moss brighter. The forest younger.
A reset.
Time, it seemed, had spit her out like a bad idea and dropped her back at square one.
She looked down. Her dress was the same she'd worn in the moments before death—green, frayed at the hem, dirt-streaked. Her feet were bare, her palms scraped. No weapons. No pack. No sense of direction.
No blood.
Just her. And the strange, awful knowledge that she'd lived this before.
"Elara Ashvine," came a voice, soft as wind and twice as judgmental, "we really must stop meeting like this."
She didn't jump. She was already too far past startled.
Instead, she turned her head slowly—and there, perched on the lowest branch of a nearby tree, was a creature the size of a cat but built like a fox. Its fur shimmered with copper light, eyes glowing faintly amber. Its wings—dragonfly-thin and vibrating—gave off a low, steady hum.
"Fig," she said flatly.
He tilted his head. "You remember me but not to wear shoes?"
Elara blinked once. "How long was I dead?"
"Long enough for me to file a complaint with management," he said, hopping down from the branch and landing soundlessly beside her. "Third reincarnation. New record. Most people stay dead by now."
Her stomach twisted. She pushed herself to her feet. The world felt tilted—not wrong, but too right. Like it was trying too hard to be real.
"I don't understand," she muttered. "Why here? Why now?"
"Because fate loves irony," Fig said, fluttering up to eye level. "And apparently, you're a cosmic thorn that just won't stay buried."
Elara wiped her hands on her dress, glancing around. "How far back?"
Fig flicked his tail. "Two years before the bond takes root. Before your name becomes a footnote in a prophecy. Before he finds you again."
The words hit like a slap. Her mouth went dry.
"Alpha Kaden," she said.
The name felt like rust on her tongue. His face—still carved into her memory—came with the sensation of cold steel and warm blood.
Fig hovered. "You should be resting. Reorienting. Maybe crying dramatically under a tree like last time."
But Elara didn't cry.
She looked down at her scraped knees, her trembling hands, her useless dress—and clenched her jaw.
"No more running," she said. "No more hoping I'll be saved. If I only have two years…"
She turned slowly toward the path that led downhill to Hollowbrook.
"…then I'm taking everything from the people who took everything from me."
Fig gave a low whistle. "I liked you better when you were disoriented and crying."
"I liked me better when I was dead," she muttered.
She walked.
Down through the forest. Past the crooked pine with her childhood initials carved in its bark. Past the old creek where she used to catch frogs. Past the spot where she'd once been kissed by a boy who hadn't survived the first raid.
She stepped into the edge of memory and found it untouched.
Hollowbrook stood where it had always stood. Smoke from chimneys. Carts in the square. The sweet scent of bread baking.
No fire. No corpses. No storm banners overhead.
It was… before.
She pulled her hood up and didn't go in.
She didn't need to.
She already knew no one would believe her. She was the ghost of a future no one else remembered.
So she turned her back on home and headed east. Toward the mountains. Toward the edge of the Stormfang Empire. Toward the place where warriors trained to kill monsters like her.
"I need to be stronger," she said.
"No argument there," Fig mumbled. "You barely survived your first plot arc."
"I'm done surviving," Elara said.
Fig tilted his head. "And what exactly are you doing now?"
She didn't answer right away.
When she did, her voice was steel.
"I'm preparing to win.
They walked for days.
Through forests that remembered her. Along rivers that shimmered like liquid silver in the moonlight. She didn't know where she was going—only that it had to be away from who she used to be.
She would not be the girl waiting to be chosen.
She would choose.
Her path took her through towns that hadn't been raided yet. Through markets she knew would burn. Through faces she might one day see hanging from the trees.
But she kept walking.
She learned to listen for trouble. To sleep with her back to stone and her hand on a knife. To flirt for bread and lie for coin. To use her smile like a weapon and her eyes like armor.
"You're a little scary now," Fig said once, watching her con a bandit out of his boots.
"Good," she replied.
Eventually, she reached the outer border of Silverkeep. Here, lords trained their sons in the war academy. Here, ranks were earned.
She didn't have time to wait two years to meet Kaden again.
She needed power before he found her.
Which meant: enroll. Train. Rise. Beat him at his own game.
When she reached the capital, she stood before the outer gates in borrowed clothes and worn boots, looking up at the banners whipping in the wind.
Silver wolf. Crimson sun.
"I'm going to set this whole kingdom on fire," she said.
Fig landed on her shoulder, tiny tail flicking. "Only metaphorically, right?"
"No promises."