The cold stone walls of the castle seemed to press in on her, though she had walked these halls countless times in another life. Lyria Valemont—the name itself carried the weight of fate, of tragedy, of inevitable death. And yet, as she traced the cracks in the marble floor, she felt no fear. Only fury.
How many times had she died here? How many times had the final bell tolled, announcing the end of the villainess, the usurper, the girl who dared to dream beyond her destined downfall? She had counted at least five lives, each one ending in betrayal, heartbreak, or blood-soaked despair. And each time, she had awakened anew, as if the gods themselves had grown tired of her persistence.
But this time would be different. Lyria would not bow to destiny. She would not clutch at her chest as the dagger of her own brother—or the betrayal of a so-called ally—ended her story before it even began. The flames of her anger burned hotter than any fear.
From the window above, the gardens glimmered under the morning sun, but even their beauty could not touch her. Her reflection in the glass caught her eye—pale skin framed by dark, cascading hair, eyes the color of storm clouds, and lips set in a determined line. She looked every inch the villainess they had all whispered about behind closed doors. Only now, she felt the truth of it: she was not evil. She was relentless. And survival was her art.
The echo of footsteps startled her. Turning sharply, she faced her brother, Prince Kaelen, whose usual smugness had been replaced by something harder—concern, perhaps, or suspicion. "Lyria," he said cautiously. "You've been wandering again. The council grows impatient."
She forced a laugh, low and bitter. "Let them grow impatient. I tire of waiting for death to come knock at my door. Perhaps it will tire of me first."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. He had always underestimated her, assuming she was a fragile piece in the game of politics, easily crushed. If only he knew. If only anyone knew the countless nights she had spent planning, memorizing every detail of their court, every betrayal, every whisper in the corridors. She remembered everything from her previous lives—the alliances that crumbled, the lovers who lied, the deaths that followed. She would not repeat their mistakes.
A soft sound behind her drew her attention. It was Mariel, the maid who had served her since childhood, her face pale but loyal. "Your Grace… I heard the council plans to remove you from the upcoming ball. They… they say your behavior is unbecoming."
Lyria's hands curled into fists. "They fear me," she said simply. "Fear is a tool, Mariel. And I will wield it until none dare oppose me."
Mariel hesitated. "And if they strike first?"
"Then they will find that I strike faster." Lyria's words were sharp, precise, like a blade unsheathing. She turned to the window again, staring out at the sun-drenched gardens below. There, she saw him—though she did not yet know his name, not in this life. A man who had been her enemy, her tormentor, and, in the twisted threads of fate, would one day become something more. Her chest tightened at the thought, a mixture of anticipation and wariness.
She had to be careful. One misstep, and history would repeat itself. Her previous deaths had taught her that love and trust were dangerous luxuries, and yet… perhaps this time, she could bend even that cruel pattern to her favor.
A knock at the door pulled her from her reverie. Kaelen left without a word, his expression a mixture of frustration and curiosity. Lyria straightened her back and opened the door. Standing there was a messenger, hooded and tense. The letter he handed her was sealed with the king's emblem.
With trembling fingers, she broke the seal. Her eyes skimmed the words, and her heart faltered—only for a moment.
"Your presence is requested at the grand council tonight. Failure to attend will be considered treason."
A trap, she thought immediately. They were trying to herd her toward her death again, like lambs to the slaughter. But this time, she would not comply blindly. She would step into the storm and bend it to her will. She would survive. She would rise.
Lyria tucked the letter into her sleeve, her mind already racing with possibilities, schemes, and counterplots. The villainess who refused to die would not be a pawn in their games. She would be the queen of her own fate—even if it meant shattering every crown and heart along the way.
And as the first rays of sunlight fell on her face, she whispered to herself, a promise that echoed through the empty halls:
"I will not die. Not now. Not ever."