The first thing Elara Ashvine noticed was the moss between her toes.
The second thing- that she was very much alive.
This would've been comforting, if not for the fact that she distinctly remembered dying.
A spear to the chest. Cold forest floor. The Alpha's silver eyes. The word "unworthy."
Now?
She lay flat on her back in a sun-dappled clearing, heart hammering like it had somewhere better to be, wearing a tattered green dress and absolutely no shoes.
Birds chirped. Bees hummed. There were butterflies. It was all terribly suspicious.
She sat up slowly…
No blood, no wound, no convenient healer leaning over her with a worried face. Just her, and a very smug-looking squirrel chewing a pinecone nearby.
He looks at her with boredom.
"Either I've been resurrected, or I've entered a particularly passive-aggressive afterlife," she muttered, brushing moss from her arms. "Which would be… typical."
The squirrel did not respond. Rude.
She stood, stretched, and took stock: bare feet, ripped dress, bruised ego. Jip, all there.
The forest looked familiar—Sunshadow Pines, just outside her old village. But…
Something was wrong. The trees were younger. The air smelled… earlier. As if time had hit a reset button and forgot to tell her.
"Elara Ashvine," drawled a tiny voice behind her, "you have the remarkable talent of dying dramatically and waking up inconveniently."
She spun. "WHO—?"
There, hovering midair, was a fox-shaped creature the size of a teacup, made entirely of copper light and bad attitude. Its wings buzzed like a dragonfly, and its tail flicked like it had places to be and better people to mock.
"Oh no," it said, "please continue screaming. I do love when mortals attract bears first thing in the morning."
Elara blinked. "You're… what are you?"
"I'm Fig. Spirit guide, magical companion, sarcasm connoisseur. You know, your classic after-death support system." The creature gave a tiny bow midair. "And you, dear Elara, are officially back. Congratulations on your second go at not dying horribly."
She squinted. "We've met?"
Fig sighed. "Not this again."
"What again?"
"We've done this. Or rather, you did this. You died. I waited. You reincarnated—again, might I add—and I showed up, expecting at least some recognition. But noooo. New body, same brain fog."
Elara stared. "Are you saying this has happened before?"
"More like… once. That we know of." Fig crossed its tiny arms. "But don't worry. This time you're starting with less trauma and more cheekbones."
Elara rubbed her temples. "I'm hallucinating. I've lost it. The squirrels did win."
Fig gave her a look. "You're barefoot, broke, recently un-murdered, and your soul is tangled in a bond with a wolf prince who stabbed you in the last act. Trust me: I'm the least weird thing happening to you right now."
That stopped her. The memories surged—his face, the pain, the blood, the cruel smirk when he turned away.
"Alpha Kaden Stormfang," she whispered, her voice suddenly ice.
Fig hovered solemnly. "Ah, the boy with the emotional range of a wet rock."
Elara exhaled slowly, anger brimming in her eyes. "If I see him again, I'm cutting out his heart."
"That's the spirit!" Fig chirped. "Or at least… a spirit. Speaking of which—what's the plan, Sparkles?"
She frowned. "You don't know?"
"I'm a guide, not a babysitter. You make the life choices. I just float and comment."
Elara looked around, she bit her lip, thinking about the fact that she had just woken up in the past.
Which means she already know she is going to get killed. So, what now?
Run? Hide? Fight?
All very good options…
But, you can't run and hide from fate, it will find you in your sleep and laugh as it slits your throat. Or worse, stab you with a spear in the heart.
That leaves one option: Fight.
Elara squares her shoulders. "Fine. If I really am back, and time's rewound, then I'm not crawling through life again waiting to be noticed."
Fig perked up. "Oooh, a rebellion. Go on."
"This time, I get power. I get rank. I get answers. And I get as far away from fate as possible."
"Excellent," Fig said. "So naturally you'll be marching directly toward the capital where your murder-wolf lives."
"Exactly." Elara says determined.
Pause. Fig tilted its head. "You do hear yourself, right?"
Elara ignored it. She started down the ridge path, the forest parting in familiar, terrifying ways. Below, nestled between pine slopes, sat her old village—Hollowbrook. Unburned. Alive. Not a single hung corpse.
Just smoke curling from chimneys and goats doing weird goat things.
Her chest tightened. "It's… before."
"Told you," Fig said. "Backtrack on the timeline. Nobody remembers anything. Except you, of course. And yours truly." He preened a whisker.
"Exactly how far back did I go?" Elara asks, looking around at the place she call home. Walking to the exact spot where she had died.
Fig makes a swirl in the air with his tail, starts counting on his paws. "Well, time is kinda funny, but about 2 years." he shrugs.
Elara staires at him. That is impossible. That would mean she is 19 and will start to feel the mate pull in 2 years. And then Kaden will show up.
"This is a lot," Elara muttered.
"Welcome to reincarnation. Side effects include nausea, existential dread, and a deeply inconvenient destiny."
She didn't stay in Hollowbrook.
She didn't need to.
She already knew no one would believe her story, and besides—every second here was borrowed time. Her fate hadn't changed. Only its starting point.
Within hours she'd scrounged boots (ugly but warm), a traveling cloak (smelled like soup), and a satchel of dried turnips (why?). She traded chores for rations, used a stick as a staff, and stole Fig's confidence that he was the only one with attitude in this partnership.
"I liked you better when you were dead," he grumbled after the fifth sarcastic comment.
"I liked you better when I didn't know you existed."
"You still don't."