The evening was cold.
Rain fell endlessly from the dark sky, drumming against the iron roofs and flooding the cobbled ground. It wasn't gentle—it was the kind that carried sorrow, as though the heavens mourned what was about to happen.
Kneeling on the execution ground was Princess Lysandra, chained like a beast.
The heavy iron dug into her wrists, the cold biting through her soaked white gown. Blood dripped from a wound near her temple, tracing a path down her cheek and mixing with the rain. Her body shivered, but inside she burned. Not from fear, but from fury.
Her gaze swept over the crowd—her people. The same ones who once bowed before her now stared with disgust, whispering.
"Traitor."
"She killed him, they said."
"The princess has fallen…"
Each word struck her harder than the cold.
She clenched her fists, ignoring the sting of the chain.
Was this justice… or mockery? She had ruled with grace, loved with honesty—yet they cast her away like a monster.
And then she heard it.
The faint, metallic scrape of a sword leaving its sheath.
Her head turned.
There she was—Serene. The royal knight. Her executioner.
Her most trusted friend.
For a heartbeat, Lysandra almost laughed. The sound came out hollow, a bitter whisper of disbelief.
"What an irony," she murmured, voice trembling. "My dearest friend… come to kill me."
Serene's grip on her sword tightened. "By the order of the crown," she said, voice sharp yet breaking, "I shall execute you."
Lightning cracked.
The blade gleamed silver in the rain—and Lysandra, even as death loomed, saw the tears slipping down Serene's cheek.
You're crying, she thought faintly.
Because she was.
When the sword fell, Lysandra didn't scream. She only whispered one last word, soft as a prayer—
"Serene."
Darkness swallowed her.
Then—light.
A breath caught in her throat as she gasped awake. Her heart pounded wildly.
Golden curtains. The faint scent of lilies. Warm sheets against her skin.
This… wasn't death.
It was her old chamber.
Exactly as it was three years before the betrayal.
Her hands trembled as she touched her face. No chains. No blood. Her skin was smooth, unscarred.
She rushed to the mirror—the same one she had shattered the night before her trial.
Her reflection stared back, younger, brighter. Alive.
A knock came.
"Your Highness?" It was a soft voice—her maid. "The royal knight, Serene, requests to see you."
Lysandra froze. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Serene.
That name again.
That face again.
She pressed a hand over her chest and whispered, barely breathing—
"Not again."