Chapter 1: The Flames Remember
The smoke rose slow and thick, curling into the gray sky like a prayer no one would answer.
The fire had caught quickly. Dry wood, soaked with oil. It always did in public executions.
The square was full—nobles, merchants, beggars, and children perched on shoulders, all jostling for a better view. A festival of death. Laughter. Shouts. Coins changing hands over bets.
And in the center of it all, tied to a wooden stake, stood Seraphina D'Argen. She wasn't struggling.
Her hands were bound behind her, her body rigid against the post, but her chin was high. There was no screaming, no pleading. Just silence, except for the crackling of fire creeping toward her feet.
Once, she had been the pride of the noble houses. Daughter of the powerful Duke D'Argen. Fiancée to the crown prince. Polished. Gracious. Untouchable.
Now? A witch. A traitor. A villain. The labels didn't matter anymore.
What did matter—what stayed with her in these final moments—was the betrayal.
Not just from the ones who shouted her name in hate now.
But from the ones who used to whisper it in love.
She barely flinched when the first ember reached her skin.
The pain came, sharp and hot. Then worse. But still she didn't move. She just stared past the crowd, past the guards, past the stone towers of the capital—into the sky.
Even now, she thought of him.
Of Alaric, the man who had held her hand with shaking fingers and promised her everything. Of Elira, who used to braid flowers into her hair and call her sister.
Of her father, who stood at the trial and looked through her like she was already dead.
She remembered the courtroom.
No sunlight reached the marble floor. Her hands had been shackled in iron. Her face bruised. Still, she walked with her back straight.
Crown Prince Alaric had barely looked at her as he read the charges.
Treason. Witchcraft. Attempted regicide.
"Seraphina D'Argen," he had said coldly, "you are hereby sentenced to death by fire."
No trial. No evidence. Just a cold voice in a cold room.
And then Elira's soft smile, just behind him. The way she held his arm like it had always belonged to her.
Seraphina hadn't cried. Not then. Not even when her father refused to speak on her behalf.
Instead, she laughed. Quietly.
"You'll regret this," she had whispered.
Now, as the flames climbed her legs, she thought of that moment. How empty her voice had sounded.
The crowd was screaming now. Someone threw a stone. It struck her jaw. Blood ran down her neck.
Still, she didn't cry out.
The pain was unbearable—but it wasn't the worst pain she'd ever known. She had already died when Alaric stepped away from her. When Elira lied. When her father said nothing.
Everything after that was just the fire catching up. She closed her eyes. Her thoughts quieted. If I had another chance…
She didn't finish the sentence.The world just… disappeared.
Somewhere Else
There was no fire here. No sky. No ground. Just darkness and cold. Not the kind that makes you shiver—but the kind that makes you forget what warmth ever felt like.
Something moved in the dark. Not a shape. A presence.
A voice, maybe. Or just a feeling."Do you want to rest?"
"No," Seraphina said, before she could think."Then do you want to return?" Her breath caught.Yes.
But not to live. Not to forgive.To remember.To change everything"Yes."
The dark pulsed, like it was breathing.
"Then go. But know this: love won't save you next time. Only the cold will."Then pain—sharper than the fire—cut through her.
She screamed.
The Morning of Her Rebirth
When her eyes opened, everything felt too quiet. Too warm.
She sat up, heart pounding. Her bed. Her canopy. Her room in D'Argen Manor.She threw the covers off and ran to the mirror.
The face that stared back was hers. But younger. Softer.
She touched her skin. No burns. No scars.
Her chest rose and fell with short, shallow breaths.
This couldn't be a dream. Not this clear. Not this real.
Sixteen, She was sixteen again!
The knock on the door startled her.
"Milady Seraphina?" came a voice. Soft. Familiar.Annette. Her maid. Her friend.Alive. She hadn't seen Annette's body after the execution, but she'd heard the rumors—that she was hanged for helping "the witch" escape.
Seraphina swallowed hard. "Tell him… tell Father I'll be down soon."Her voice shook. She forced it steady.This wasn't a gift.This was a test.
In Her Father's Study
He looked up when she entered. Still tall. Still stern. Still unreadable.
"The Crown Prince has summoned you to court tomorrow," he said, like it meant nothing. "He wishes to formally announce your engagement."
So it really was the beginning. The same day it had started.
She could still say no. She could still walk a different path. Tell someone the truth. Warn the kingdom. Run.But she didn't.
Instead, she smiled."Of course," she said, calmly.He nodded once. That was the moment she realized something important:She didn't hate him. Not really. She just didn't love him anymore.
In Her Room Again
The old chest under her bed hadn't been opened in years. Dust coated the lid. She pulled it free and stared down at the book inside.Her mother's grimoire. Back then, it had scared her. She never even turned the second page. Now she opened it without hesitation.
The ink shimmered faintly. The pages smelled of salt and metal. Words she didn't recognize danced under her fingers, and a strange warmth spread through her chest.Not the warmth of fire.
The warmth of power.
Late That Night
She stood on her balcony, her hair loose, eyes turned to the sky.The stars were out. The air was still. She thought of Elira's laugh. Alaric's kiss. Her father's silence. They had taken everything from her.
And now?
They would lose everything.
"I remember," she whispered. No one heard her. But the wind shifted.
And far, far away, something old and cold stirred.