The world burned in silence.
Yelena stood at the edge of the execution platform, the cold stone pressing beneath her bare feet, her white hair dancing lightly in the morning breeze. Her deep blue eyes, wide and unbroken, scanned the crowd of nobles, priests, and spectators gathered to witness the prophecy's fulfillment. The sky above was a cruel, pale gray, and yet the sun seemed to burn hotter than ever, as if the heavens themselves sought to punish her.
She had been summoned here, chosen, betrayed—and now, cast aside.
Seren stood opposite her, radiant and untouchable. Her golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, and her golden eyes sparkled with a warmth Yelena once envied. The court whispered in awe: "The true child. The savior." And they were all deceived. Yelena had been the real child, the one the prophecy had truly chosen. But the world had lied, and the lie had been embraced.
The priests raised their hands, chanting the words that would seal her fate. Yelena's heart, despite everything, did not tremble. It had long learned to steel itself against betrayal, against pain, against death itself. Yet beneath the calm exterior, a storm raged. Rage at those who had sent her to this fate. Sorrow for the world that would crumble without her guidance. And hope—a fragile spark—that even now, as she fell, something could change.
Chains bit into her wrists as the executioner stepped forward. Yelena's gaze fell to the crowd, noting faces: noblemen with greed lurking behind polite masks, priests whose piety had been corrupted by ambition, and commoners whose awe would soon turn to despair. Among them, she glimpsed a few who had once smiled at her with genuine warmth. They would not survive the chaos to come.
And yet, in that final heartbeat, clarity came.
She raised her chin, breath steady, eyes unflinching. "If this is the end…" she whispered to no one but herself, "…then let me see it all before it burns."
The executioner's blade descended.
Pain exploded. Light swallowed her. The world twisted, fractured, and fell into darkness.
But even in death, Yelena's will did not break. Her final thought, carried on the edge of despair and defiance, reached out to the void: Give me another chance. Let me rewrite the story. Let the lies be revealed. Let the world remember the truth.
And somewhere, beyond the bounds of mortal sight, a force responded.
A warmth unlike the sun, a power unlike any she had ever felt, wrapped around her essence. Threads of fate twisted, bending to a will older than kingdoms. And then… silence.
When her eyes opened again, it was not the gray sky, not the platform, not the cries of the court that greeted her. It was the familiar warmth of home, the soft morning light spilling across her room, the scent of old parchment and polished wood. She was alive.
Alive.
But she was not the same.
Yelena rose, white hair spilling over her shoulders, deep blue eyes alight with purpose. The echoes of betrayal still clung to her, and the memory of a ruined world lingered at the edge of her mind.
The game had begun anew. And this time, she would play it on her terms.