I should be dead.
The cold stone beneath me presses unforgiving against my cheek as the whispered prayers of the court echo faintly in my ears. Around me, the grand hall is cloaked in silence, heavy with the weight of judgment. My name — Elira Valen — is spat with venom, as if it alone were poison.
The executioner's blade gleams under the flickering torchlight. A sharp breath escapes my lips, shallow and ragged, but I keep my eyes fixed on the stained ceiling above. I do not flinch.
This is how it ends. The so-called villainess, disgraced, humiliated, broken and finally silenced by a swift death.
Only, something is wrong.
I don't feel the blade. I don't hear the final cry. Instead, the world twists beneath me, colors bleeding and shapes fracturing like shards of glass.
Then
I open my eyes.
Not the cold stone floor of the execution chamber, but a dimly lit room. A heavy cloak wraps around my shoulders. My hands, my real hands tremble.
I am not Elira Valen.
But I wear her skin.
---
My name is Lysara.
An assassin.
Reborn into the body of a woman who was already condemned. A woman who was marked for death by the very world she once tried to conquer.
I stare at the cracked mirror across the room. The face staring back is unfamiliar, yet hauntingly familiar. Elira's dark hair cascades around sharp cheekbones, eyes fierce but haunted. They don't know what I know.
And that terrifies me.
Because I'm not here to die.
I'm here to rewrite the story.
---
The room smells of damp wood and old parchment. Faint light filters through a cracked window, dust dancing like tiny specters in the stale air. The bed beneath me creaks as I shift, the coarse blanket scratching my skin. This is a far cry from the cold stone chamber where I met my supposed end.
I swing my legs off the bed, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. Every movement is foreign, as if learning to inhabit a body that is not mine.
"Your Grace," a voice calls softly.
I spin toward the door just as it opens, revealing a slender man with sharp features and eyes like polished steel.
"Who are you?" I demand, steadying myself against the wall.
He bows slightly. "Talon Virex, at your service. Your assistant and... guide."
"Guide?" My voice is hoarse. "Why am I here? Why am I alive?"
Talon steps inside, closing the door behind him. "Because your death was a mistake. Or rather, a glitch."
"A glitch?" I repeat, incredulous.
He nods, producing a small device glowing with a faint blue light. "The Scriptor controls fate here, a system dictating the events that must unfold. Your story was supposed to end in that chamber, but something went wrong."
I swallow hard. Fate? Stories? What nonsense is this?
"You're saying this... system wants me dead," I say slowly. "But you're here to help me... rewrite my story?"
Talon's gaze sharpens. "Precisely. The Scriptor is relentless, but it isn't infallible. You have the power to change the narrative and to claim your life and your throne on your own terms."
---
The weight of his words settles over me. My mind races through the fragments of memory not my own: the whispered betrayals, the royal court's cold glances, the sister's smile hiding a dagger.
Aeris Valen, my younger sister, the kingdom's golden child, the saint who prays with one hand while scheming with the other.
I was supposed to lose to her.
Supposed to bow and beg for mercy.
Supposed to die alone and forgotten.
But I won't.
---
I pace the room, feeling the strange pull of Elira's memories weaving through mine, a tangled web of fear, rage, and regret.
"I don't even know if I can trust you," I say, halting in front of Talon.
He offers a thin smile. "Fair enough. Trust is earned."
He reaches into his cloak and produces a leather-bound book, old and worn, its cover embossed with strange runes.
"This," he says, "is the Codex, a record of every choice, every consequence. With it, you can see the paths ahead and avoid the traps laid by the Scriptor."
I run my fingers over the book's surface. It hums softly, alive with hidden power.
"So what now?" I ask.
"Now," Talon says, "you prepare. You build allies where you can. You kill where you must. And above all, you survive."
---
Survive.
The word tastes bitter on my tongue.
I was trained to kill, to vanish without a trace. But to survive in a palace full of vipers, a place where smiles mask daggers requires more than skill with a blade.
It requires cunning.
---
The days that follow blur together.
I learn to navigate Elira's world, to mimic her mannerisms, to feign weakness while sharpening my mind like a blade.
I watch the court's snakes coil and strike, pretending to be the broken pawn they expect.
But behind the mask, something fierce and unyielding grows.
---
One evening, I find myself in the library, a cavernous hall filled with ancient tomes and secrets.
Talon waits for me there.
"The Scriptor has noticed your resistance," he says quietly. "Its patience wears thin."
I nod, clutching a dusty volume.
"It will send hunters. Assassins. Shadows you won't see coming."
A cold thrill runs through me.
Let it come.
---
Because I'm not the woman who was meant to die.
I am Lysara.
The assassin who became a queen.
And this time, the story ends with me holding the crown.