The first thing to return to her senses was the biting cold.
It was not the burning pain of fire, but a sensation far more familiar and suffocating—rough, unyielding, pressing tightly against her throat, greedily squeezing the last breath of air from her lungs.
Eleanor Fleming's eyes snapped open.
The darkness she expected did not descend. Instead, her gaze fell upon a scene that was both familiar and strange: faded linen drapes, wooden beams carrying a faint musty scent, and gray morning light seeping through a narrow window.
This was not a crowd frenzied beneath the pyre, nor was it hell.
This was her old bedroom in the countryside, from years ago, when she was still Eleanor Fleming.
No.
She coughed violently, her fingers instinctively brushing her neck. It was smooth, unmarked, no broken bones screaming in pain. Only her heartbeat, heavy and real, thudding in her chest, reminding her she was alive.
Memories surged like a tidal wave, carrying the heat of flames and Seraphina's final screams. The Inquisition. Accusations of witchcraft. Public humiliation. And the noose.
They had died. She and Seraphina. For a love the world would not tolerate, they were condemned as witches and sent to the gallows.
Hatred, pure and blazing, instantly drowned the confusion of rebirth. It coursed through her veins like venom, almost tearing through this seemingly young body.
She sat up and took in her surroundings. Every detail—the room's furnishings, the texture of the sheets, even the scent in the air—pointed unmistakably to one point in time: three full years before the tragedy, when she was sixteen.
Three years.
Enough time to do a lot.
Enough time to find everyone who had betrayed them, enough time to drag each of them into the hell they had prepared for her and Seraphina.
Footsteps echoed lightly outside the door. Eleanor—no, reborn as Eleanor Warren—quickly masked the raging hatred in her eyes, replacing it with a slightly timid expression suitable for her age. She needed information. She needed confirmation.
"Miss, are you awake?" A young maid, Martha, stepped in holding a basin of warm water. "You seemed restless last night."
"Just a bad dream," Eleanor said softly, her voice tinged with the right amount of huskiness, mimicking the tone of her younger self. "Martha, what day is it today? I'm feeling a little dizzy."
"It is the third day after Candlemas, Miss." Martha began tidying her bed with practised efficiency. "It is warming up, but the morning is still chilly. You should wear something extra."
The third day after Candlemas. Eleanor did the mental math. Thirty-one months remained until the summer that would change everything. Time was on her side.
She approached the cold copper basin and splashed her face. The reflection in the water was blurred, but she could make out a young, pale, yet strikingly beautiful face. Long dark-gold hair fell over her shoulders, and ice-gray eyes carried a deathly calm and cold that did not match her age.
Eleanor Warren. The identity was suitable. A distant cousin, sent here after the death of her parents, with a modest noble status, enough to maintain appearances without attracting undue attention. It provided low visibility and some social leverage.
At breakfast, she casually probed Martha and the steward, confirming the current year, location, and the web of relationships around her. She learned that a young priest, Lucien Croft, recently returned from the seminary and now served as clerk at the local Inquisition, was locally known for his piety and handsome appearance.
Lucien Croft.
Eleanor's reborn mind stirred with fragmentary memories of him. The priest was not as flawless as he seemed. Rumors would soon circulate about his overly intimate relationship with a young knight, though they would be quickly suppressed.
A plan began to take shape in her mind. Infiltrate the Inquisition. That was the key to revenge. And the priest with a secret might just be the perfect stepping stone.
Over the following days, Eleanor played the quiet, unassuming Miss Warren while carefully observing the church and Inquisition. She needed evidence. She needed a seemingly accidental opportunity.
It came on a rainy afternoon. She visited the church under the pretense of donating handmade goods, deliberately avoiding the crowd. As she passed through the neglected corridor linking the church's backyard to a small graveyard, she heard muffled voices behind a half-open door of an abandoned storeroom.
Gabriel, this is too risky. We are too close to the Inquisition.
The anxious male voice was quiet but instantly recognizable. Lucien Croft.
Fear? Lucien, you are always so timid.
A more languid, magnetic male voice replied, with a trace of teasing. No one comes here. Or are you bored?
No! You know I am not, but if anyone finds out…
Find out what? That the esteemed Father Croft is discussing scripture with his knightly friend?
Eleanor held her breath, pressing silently against the mottled stone wall. Through the door crack, she saw them. Lucien stood with his back to the door, his normally immaculate priestly robes slightly disheveled. Facing him was a golden-haired, blue-eyed, finely armored knight, Sir Gabriel Thorne, lightly lifting Lucien's chin with his fingers.
Gabriel, stop… Lucien's voice pleaded, though he did not truly push him away.
Oh? Stop what? Gabriel's smirk widened, leaning closer…
Eleanor's heart raced—not in fear, but in exhilaration. She had found it. Far more directly than she expected.
She did not leave immediately, patiently waiting until the sounds inside grew more indiscreet. Calmly, she dropped a small handkerchief she had brought for her supposed donation right at the door, deliberately making it noticeable.
Then she spoke, her voice clear but not alarming, as if testing the room. Excuse me, is anyone here?
Silence. Deadly silence, then the rustle of clothing in panic.
After a few seconds, Eleanor carefully pushed open the door.
The two inside had quickly separated. Lucien Croft's face was pale, lips trembling, hastily straightening his robe, eyes full of terror and shame. Sir Gabriel stood slightly farther back, wearing an expression of disturbed annoyance mixed with watchful arrogance, eyeing Eleanor sharply.
Miss Warren? Lucien's voice was dry and strained.
Father Croft? Sir Thorne? Eleanor feigned innocent surprise, bending to pick up her handkerchief. Sorry, did I interrupt your discussion? I seem to have lost my way.
Her gaze "accidentally" flicked to Lucien's still messy collar and to Gabriel's cornered but lingering smirk.
Nothing… nothing happened. We were just discussing parish matters. The corridor is over there, Miss Warren. Lucien stammered, trying to regain composure, but his pale face and shifting eyes betrayed him.
Oh, thank you, Father. Eleanor smiled innocently, pausing with her gaze subtly lingering on Lucien before adding in a quiet, almost imperceptibly icy tone. It seems… you and Sir Thorne are very close friends indeed.
The words hit Lucien like a thunderclap. Color drained from his face.
Gabriel frowned and stepped forward threateningly. What do you mean by that, Miss Warren?
Eleanor met his gaze, her innocence fading, replaced with cold, measured clarity. She no longer looked at Gabriel, only at the terrified Lucien Croft.
I mean, Father Croft, she said calmly, each word striking like a hammer, if the bishop or the Inquisition judges learned of your unusually close friendship with Sir Thorne, would they still consider you a pious and blameless servant of God?
She tilted her head slightly, her ice-gray eyes unflinching, radiating pure, nearly cruel calm.
Or should I ask, would you prefer to continue wearing that sacred robe, or to experience the dungeons you record daily for heretics and witches?
Lucien Croft stepped back sharply, pressed against the cold wall, as if every ounce of strength had been drained from him. Only terror and despair remained in his eyes.
Eleanor Warren knew her first step had succeeded.
The shadow of the noose now hung over her first prey. And this was only the beginning.