The night I died, the stars burned red.
Rain poured down the glass dome above the ballroom, streaking the world in silver and scarlet. Chandeliers trembled as thunder rolled, and laughter — rich, glittering, cruel — filled the air like poison.
I should have known it was a funeral, not an engagement party.
"Lyra Hale," the host's voice boomed over the music, "to the future Mrs. Adrian Hale!"
Applause followed — hollow, rehearsed, mocking. I smiled anyway, the way a trained puppet does when the strings tighten. My fiancé's arm wrapped around my waist, his touch a perfect lie.
"Smile, love," he murmured against my ear, his breath warm. "You're mine now."
For a heartbeat, I wanted to believe him. That his dark eyes held affection, not ambition. That the ring on my finger meant forever, not a curse.
Then I saw it — the faint smear of lipstick on his cuff. The color wasn't mine.
My pulse quickened. I pulled away, just slightly, enough to see the cold satisfaction in his smile. And that was when I knew.
Something inside me cracked open — small, sharp, unstoppable.
Midnight struck.
The music stopped. The lights flickered.
And as I turned toward him, I saw the gun in his hand.
There was no hesitation.
Only the whisper of my name — "Lyra."
Then the flash of silver and fire.
Pain bloomed in my chest, and the world tilted backward. I saw the chandelier's reflection in the marble floor as I fell. For a moment, I thought I saw my soul leaving my body — pale smoke rising, reaching for the ceiling before the dark swallowed it.
But death, it seemed, wasn't the end.
When I opened my eyes again, I was somewhere else — a silk-draped room that smelled of blood and rain. A woman stood over me, her face hidden beneath a black veil.
"Welcome back, Elara," she whispered.
Her voice echoed inside my mind, cold and beautiful. "You've been given another chance. Don't waste it."