The moon hung low over Caerith Palace, pale and indifferent, like the gods it was said to reflect. Its light poured across the courtyard stones, staining them silver—and red.
Elira knelt.
The crowd had gathered long before sunset, a sea of whispers and veiled hatred wrapped in fine silks and gold-threaded cloaks. They had come not out of grief, but hunger. Hunger to see the fall of a royal. Hunger to watch a legacy die.
The platform beneath her knees creaked. Damp. Old. She wondered idly if they would burn the wood after her blood touched it, or simply wipe it down for the next execution.
"In the name of the Crown, Princess Elira Vellaria Caelis is sentenced to death for treason."
The High Chancellor's voice rang out like a sword being unsheathed.
Elira didn't look at him.
She didn't look at her fourth brother, standing at the front with his gaudy medals, feigning grief. She didn't look at her eldest sister, who twisted her fan like a blade between her fingers. She didn't even look at the nobles who had once bowed to her, now standing in rows like sharpened knives.
She looked at the tower.
There, behind the veiled curtain of the Eastern Watch, a shadow lingered.
Heaven.
He stood as still as the stone columns that held the palace. Watching. Not moving. Not speaking.
"I will never abandon you."
That's what he had once said. On a night of stormlight and secret oaths. His hand had trembled when it touched hers, as if the world might break if they held on too tightly.
Now, he didn't even blink.
The executioner approached. Tall, faceless beneath a silver mask. A symbol of justice, they said—blind and unfeeling.
He didn't speak. Just reached for the rope.
"Do you have any last words, Princess?" the High Chancellor asked.
Elira's lips parted, but no sound came. Not because of fear.
Because nothing she said would matter.
They had already chosen the ending.
Her knees felt cold. Her wrists burned under the iron. Her breath was a tight coil in her chest.
"So this is how the world ends for me."
Not in battle. Not in glory. Not even with a whisper of truth.
But as a traitor. Alone. Forgotten.
The noose came down like a crown made of shadows.
And Elira closed her eyes.
I was born into lies.Raised in silence.Framed in betrayal.And now I die in the name of peace.Let them have their peace.
For now.
But death did not welcome her.
There was no warmth. No darkness. No drifting into the void.
Only—
Pain.
A gasp. Cold air flooding her lungs like knives. The scent of parchment and perfumed wax.
A pillow beneath her cheek. Sheets. Breathing. She was... breathing.
She jolted upright.
Her bed.The old four-poster bed with carved ivy spirals, the same green curtains that fluttered against the frost-laced windows. The cracked mirror near the armoire—still broken from when she was thirteen.
A single candle flickered on her desk. Dim. Real.
Her hands shook.
She looked down.
No shackles.
Her wrists were small again. Soft. Childlike.
She was back.
Thirteen.
For several long minutes, she didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Her body remembered dying. Her throat remembered the rope. Her soul remembered the weight of betrayal. And now—everything was too silent. Too still.
A knock at the door.
"Princess Elira? It's nearly time for morning recitation... Should I help you dress?"
Mira.
Elira nearly choked.
Mira. Her handmaiden. The only one who had stood by her, even at the end. Mira had screamed when the guards dragged Elira to her knees. Mira had been executed with her—her only crime was loyalty.
"Princess?"
Her voice was the same. Gentle. Unaware of the future that would consume her.
"No," Elira said hoarsely. "Tell them… I'm unwell."
"But, my lady, your third sister—"
"Do as I say, Mira."
Silence. Then a soft curtsy and retreating footsteps.
Elira sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white.
She rose slowly and went to the mirror.
Her face was pale, too youthful, untouched by scars. Her silver hair was shorter, barely brushing her shoulders. Her eyes—aquamarine, but not yet hardened.
Not yet.
You know what's coming.
You know who will betray you.Who will smile before plunging the dagger.Who will pretend to love you——and who will watch you die.
She stared at her reflection.
A girl. A ghost.
Not this time.
She moved to her desk.
Opened the drawer. Inside, old parchments. A quill. Ink.
Her hand trembled only once before she began to write.
"Day One. I am alive. This is not a dream.""I died. And now I breathe.""This palace killed me. But I will not let it kill me again."
She paused. Then underlined the next line three times.
"I remember everything."
The sun had barely touched the horizon when Elira slipped onto the balcony.
The frost shimmered across the tiled roof, and the kingdom of Irelia lay below her feet, quiet, sleeping, rotting beneath a crown that glistened with stolen blood.
"This time," she whispered,"I'll write the ending myself."
A cold wind lifted her hair.
Behind her, the cracked mirror caught the first light of morning—
—and something deep in its reflection flickered, like a shadow just beginning to stir.
The wind hissed through the balcony rails, carrying with it the scent of snow and old stone. Elira stood motionless, eyes fixed on the palace towers beyond—the same towers where she had once pleaded for mercy, once hoped for love.
Now she hoped for nothing.
Only vengeance.And survival.
But just as she turned to re-enter her chambers, a whisper brushed against her thoughts—not sound, not speech, but something deeper. Like a memory that didn't belong to her.
"You were not the only one who remembered."
Elira froze.
She spun toward the mirror.
Its cracked surface shimmered faintly, as if light had bent in ways it shouldn't. For a heartbeat, her own reflection was gone—replaced by a blur of shadow and violet eyes.
Eyes she had seen before.Eyes that had watched her die.
The whisper came again, clearer this time, and unmistakably real.
"This time, don't trust me so easily."
Then the mirror shattered inward, silently.
No noise. No glass. Only a breath of cold that wasn't from the wind.
Elira didn't scream.Didn't flinch.
She simply turned, stepped calmly toward her desk, and reached for her ink.
Someone else remembers.Someone dangerous.And he's already watching.
She drew a new name on the parchment.Circled it once.Twice.
Caelum Thorne Azarion.
"Then let the game begin."