The sky above the capital of Ardrelle was a bruised purple, clouds bloated with the threat of rain, but the people gathered below had no mind for weather.
They came for blood.
"WITCH!" someone screamed from the crowd, the word torn apart by hundreds of voices that followed like a tide of hatred. Rotten fruit, half-eaten bread, and the occasional stone sailed through the air.
One struck Evelyne Draymoor on the cheek, a sticky smear of pulp clinging to her skin. She neither flinched nor bowed her head. If anything, her spine straightened, chin lifting as though she still stood in the ballroom of Draymoor Manor rather than bound in rough rope, dressed in tattered silk, awaiting the headsman's axe.
She scanned the faces. Not of the mob — those petty creatures meant nothing — but of the nobles watching from the safety of the platform's edge. Cloaked figures, jeweled collars, gloved hands resting on gilded canes.
Lord Caldrin Ashven, who once begged for her favor at court.Lady Virella, who had whispered filth about Seraphina behind silk fans.Duke Rallor, whose son she'd saved from disgrace only two winters past.
And now, every one of them stared at her as if she were a rabid beast finally caged.
Cowards.
Evelyne's gaze slid further, locking onto the man at the platform's center. His golden hair catching the dying light like a halo. His royal doublet immaculate, snow-white and embroidered with the sigil of House Veylan — a soaring falcon.
Prince Aldric.
Aldric wore sorrow well. His face was carved from grief, his eyes glistening, his lips set in a line of noble suffering. If Evelyne hadn't known the curve of his smirk, the smug twist at the corner of his mouth, she might have believed it.
But she had tasted that mouth.
She had heard him swear his eternal loyalty in the darkness of her chamber.
And now, here he stood.
A traitor wearing the mask of a grieving fiancé.
"Duchess Evelyne Draymoor," Aldric's voice carried across the square, amplified by the hush that fell like a suffocating blanket over the crowd. "You stand accused of treason against the Crown, of the poisoning of Lady Belros, of conspiring with foreign agents, and of plotting the death of Her Holiness, Seraphina Valeine."
The mob erupted into a new chorus of filth at Seraphina's name, and Evelyne felt grief from the bottom of her heart — not with fear. Not anymore.
Seraphina.
The little dove. The saintess of Ardrelle. The peasant girl the temple raised to sainthood. The woman who'd sat in Evelyne's parlor, eyes downcast, lips trembling, claiming to admire her.
And who, behind that demure smile, had set every blade against her back.
Evelyne's lips curled into a slow, venomous smile. The noose itched against her throat as she leaned forward, her voice low but sharp as a dagger.
"Are we done with the theatre, Aldric?" she said, savoring the way his name twisted in her mouth like poison. "Or shall I confess to drowning kittens and conspiring with the moon while I'm at it?"
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Aldric's handsome face twitched, just for a moment.
"Your Grace," a smooth voice intoned from behind him.
And there she was.
Seraphina Valeine.
Dressed in pure white, gold-threaded lace falling in soft waves to the stones. A modest circlet of silver around her brow. Hair like sunlight. Eyes downcast in meek sorrow. The perfect portrait of a grieving holy maiden.
But Evelyne saw it.
A flicker. A glint in those sea-blue eyes.
Satisfaction.
Triumph.
As the saintess stepped forward to offer a prayer for Evelyne's 'troubled soul,' the sky cracked with thunder.
Evelyne smiled wider.
You should have killed me faster.
The storm above brooded, an aching heaviness pressing against the city like a held breath. Evelyne could feel it in the air — thick with unspoken things, cloying with the scent of sweat, rain, and iron.
Prince Aldric descended the few steps of the dais with measured grace, every inch the grieving sovereign. His cloak billowed behind him like a standard. The gathered crowd seemed to shrink, devouring the silence his presence created.
He stopped before her, close enough for Evelyne to count the pale freckles dusting his cheekbones, to catch the faint trace of rose water clinging to his skin. It was obscene.
He looked at her the way one might look upon a loyal hound being led to slaughter.
"My Evelyne," Aldric murmured, his voice pitched so only she could hear.
My Evelyne.
The words slithered over her like oil, thick, repugnant.
She tilted her head, studying him. The man she once believed in. The prince whose hand she had taken in countless court dances. The one who had kissed her palm in secret gardens and whispered about crowns and eternity.
"You play the role well," Evelyne said softly, a faint, mocking smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Had you been half this convincing in bed, we might've made it to the wedding."
His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering like the twitch of a whip-crack.
"I did not wish for this," Aldric said louder now, voice carrying to the hushed crowd. The picture of reluctant justice. "I sought every path to spare you. Every clemency within my power."
A murmur stirred the mass below — some faces damp with sympathy, others scowling in contempt. Evelyne let her gaze drift lazily over them, as if watching a play she'd already seen, unimpressed by the actors.
Aldric's hand moved, offering a token — a fine white handkerchief embroidered with the royal crest. It hung between them like a flag of false mercy.
"Confess, Evelyne," he murmured, voice honeyed and sharp. "Plead before the gods and the people. I will grant you a noble death. No axe. No shame."
Evelyne's tongue traced the inside of her cheek. She let the words hang in the air, savoring the moment, the way the crowd strained closer, waiting to see if the villainess would finally break.
But breaking was never in her nature.
She leaned forward, the rope around her wrists groaning with strain, and said in a voice sharp as shattered glass, "You think I fear shame? You think I fear your axe, your lies, your pitiful offer?"
She could see the flicker in his eyes. A brief, unmistakable pulse of unease.
"You are a coward, Aldric. A king in name only. A man so brittle he hides behind skirts and prayers," Evelyne spat. "And one day, the very people you've duped will tear you from that throne and remember that I warned them."
The hush that fell was not silence — it was a living thing. A thousand unspoken thoughts suspended between one heartbeat and the next.
Aldric's face hardened, and his lips curved into the faintest smirk.
"Then die a traitor," he said coldly, and stepped aside.
From the edge of the platform, a voice rose in song-like cadence. Sweet, trembling, faux-holy.
"Let us pray for the soul of Evelyne Draymoor," sang Seraphina, her face lifted toward the roiling heavens.
Evelyne did not look at her. She kept her gaze locked on Aldric, burning the moment into memory.
Remember this, my prince. Remember this face. Because you will see it again.
The hush deepened as Seraphina Valeine stepped forward, her pale hands folded like those of a marble statue. She moved with practiced grace, white silks trailing over bloodstained stone, untouched by the filth of the crowd. Every movement was calculated to look effortless — but Evelyne, who had once been foolish enough to call her 'little dove,' recognized the calculation behind the purity.
A flower among carrion.
A dagger wrapped in lace.
Seraphina's face was lifted, her expression one of gentle sorrow, lashes lowered demurely. The crowd's fury softened at the sight of her. Rough voices faltered, jeers replaced by murmurs of reverence.
"Oh, bless her…"
"A true saintess…"
"The gods protect her heart…"
Evelyne watched the performance with detached clarity, as one might watch a viper slide across the floor of a ballroom, admired by those too witless to notice its fangs.
Seraphina's voice rose, gentle and trembling like a harp string plucked in a storm.
"Merciful gods, in your infinite wisdom, look upon this fallen soul. Cleanse her of wickedness. Forgive the darkness within her heart. And may the realm know peace, delivered from her sins."
Somewhere behind Evelyne, a woman sobbed.
The farce made Evelyne want to laugh.
The memory struck unbidden: a night years ago, Seraphina kneeling before her, wine on her breath, confessing her hatred for the nobles, her dreams of power. Evelyne had pitied her then. She'd believed the girl's sweet smiles were nothing but the clumsy armor of the frightened.
A fatal mistake.
Evelyne's eyes snapped to Seraphina's face now — and there it was.
A flicker.
Not a twitch of the lips, not a smug grin. More subtle than that. The tiniest narrowing of the eyes, a faint gleam of satisfaction sharp as glass.
You're enjoying this, aren't you?
The moment passed so swiftly it might have been a trick of light, but Evelyne knew the truth. Knew it the way one knows a knife by the chill of its touch.
"You wear the mask well, little dove," Evelyne murmured, low enough for none but herself to hear.
Seraphina's prayer continued, each word gilded with righteous sorrow, a balm for the trembling masses. But Evelyne saw beyond it now, past the honeyed words and downcast lashes.
This was no meek saintess.
This was the architect.
The venom in Evelyne's veins surged, not fear, but a savage clarity.
She would not die with these lies unchallenged.
And she would not forget the face of the girl who'd wielded the knife in the dark.
A sound broke through the haze — the sharp, metallic rasp of a weapon drawn.
The executioner approached, axe in hand.
The end neared.
But the game… had only begun.
The executioner's boots thudded against the worn boards of the scaffold, each step a dull, lifeless drumbeat. The crowd stirred in restless anticipation, hungry for the crimson spill of noble blood.
A single raindrop struck the dust-caked platform, leaving a tiny, dark mark upon the wood.
Evelyne raised her head.
The storm above swelled, clouds coiling like a living thing. It should have terrified her. It didn't.
She kept her gaze steady on the prince and the saintess. Memorizing them. Not their faces — no. Faces were masks. It was the gleam in Aldric's eye, the smug satisfaction poorly hidden behind princely grief. It was the delicate tremor of Seraphina's fingers as she clutched her prayer charm, not from piety, but from the thrill of victory.
Evelyne breathed in the thick, sour air, thick with sweat, rain, and old stone, and felt a clarity so sharp it might have drawn blood.
The axe gleamed as it rose, cruel and unadorned.
A voice — her own, raw and sharp — tore from her throat.
"I curse you all."
The words rang out, cutting through the storm's hush.
A child's sob stuttered to a halt. A mutter died on a merchant's lips. Even the executioner's grip faltered for the briefest instant.
Evelyne forced her voice higher, the noose scraping against her neck.
"May your crowns turn to ash, your prayers rot in your mouths, and may the earth swallow every liar standing on this scaffold!"
The crowd recoiled as if struck. The nobles exchanged uneasy glances. Thunder cracked overhead, and the heavens split.
Aldric's expression slipped — the smirk faltering, replaced with something colder, something unsteady.
Seraphina's lips moved soundlessly, a prayer, or perhaps a curse of her own.
Evelyne smiled.
The axe fell.
And in that impossible instant before the blow struck, the world convulsed.
A blinding, searing pain tore through her chest, not from steel, but from something inside — a heat, ancient and unmerciful. Evelyne felt the air collapse, the sounds of the world drown in a great, rushing darkness.
Then — nothing.
No pain.
No roar.
Only a faint scent of lilac.
And silk against her skin.
Her eyes snapped open to find a vaulted ceiling above her, white plaster streaked with morning light. Velvet curtains stirred in a gentle breeze.
The scent of lilac.
The sound of her own breathing.
And her reflection — young, unlined, untouched — staring back at her from the ornate mirror across the room.
Her chambers.
Draymoor Manor.
The engagement ball.
Five years ago.
Evelyne's lips parted in a slow, terrible smile.
"Well then," she whispered to the empty room. "Whatever the reason is, I'm back.
Let's begin again."