Once again, Seraphina awoke choking on her breath.
She shot upright in bed, hands flying to her neck, gasping for air that wasn't laced with the weight of a falling blade.
Her vision blurred.
She could still feel it—the cold of the guillotine's platform, the bite of iron shackles, the sharp snap of the crowd's silence before the executioner dropped the blade.
Her fingers trembled over her throat.
No wound.
But the pain still lingered, phantom-like. As if her body remembered what her mind wished it could forget.
She coughed, sobbed once, then caught sight of something out of place—
A glow.
Faint.
Under her skin, just beneath her left wrist, a golden light pulsed like a heartbeat.
Her breath caught again—not from fear this time, but confusion.
Her family, the Vaelcrests, were renowned for fire magic. Every generation had borne crimson flames in battle since the first Duchess—Talia Vaelcrest, the legendary war hero who razed the northern empire to ash.
But Seraphina?
She was born mana-deficient. Magicless. A disappointment. Her father had reminded her of it every chance he got.
So why now?
Why this?
Why was her skin glowing with a magic she'd never touched?
And not just any magic—time magic.
Ancient. Divine. Rare.
Unseen in noble bloodlines for centuries.
This shouldn't be happening.
She pressed her hand to the glow, expecting it to fade.
It pulsed brighter.
A golden thread curled through her veins, warm but not burning, humming with restrained power.
It felt… like a heartbeat.
Not hers.
Then whose?
The golden glow didn't fade.
If anything, it pulsed more steadily now—as if responding to her panic. Or her will.
Seraphina wrapped her wrist in a long silk ribbon, hiding the light as best as she could. Her breath still shaky, she slipped quietly out of her chambers. The house was quiet. As always.
They didn't expect her to do anything bold. Not anymore.
Her feet carried her to the one place in the manor she was never scolded for entering—the library.
Centuries of Vaelcrest history were stacked neatly in that room. Books on fire magic, old battlefield records, noble bloodline studies... and a dusty, locked shelf of Forbidden Theory. She picked the lock with a slender hairpin she kept hidden in her sleeve. Fifth death had taught her some useful tricks.
The pages she turned were brittle with age. Most were dismissive—time magic, they claimed, was "a relic of ancient legends", marked only by a golden glow. Uncastable. Unlearnable. Unreal.
"The golden mark is said to appear only on those cursed by the gods, or chosen by fate. No living record has confirmed the casting of a time-based spell."
So what was she?
A cursed soul?
Or fate's puppet?
Her fingers landed on a faded diagram—runes spiraling in a clockwise pattern.
One phrase beneath the drawing stood out, ink almost erased:
"Only in death will time awaken."
She leaned back slowly, heartbeat steadying. "Then it wasn't a coincidence," she whispered.
She had died. Five times. And now—time responded.
She placed her hand flat on the page. Her wrist glowed faintly beneath the ribbon, and to her disbelief, the ancient ink shimmered back. Only for a second. But she saw it.
Something recognized her.
The thought chilled her.
Could she cast a spell?
Would the magic answer her?
Was she finally… not helpless?
She didn't know the answers.
But for the first time in five lifetimes, Seraphina felt something she hadn't in a long time.
Hope.