Three months.
The number echoed in my skull like a death knell as I stood before the window, counting days in my head. Spring, Year 1425. The original Rosalind had been executed in the high summer, when the roses in the academy gardens were in their most decadent bloom. The prosecution had called it a poetic touch—the villainess dying as the flowers she allegedly used to mask the poison's scent reached their peak.
I turned from the window and began to search the room methodically. I searched the room not with panic, but with the focused efficiency of a general preparing for a siege. Rosalind's memories were a flood of emotion—embarrassment, longing, terror—but light on practical details. I needed facts. Timelines. Vulnerabilities.
The writing desk yielded the first clue: a discarded invitation, its edges gilt with gold leaf.
You are cordially invited to a Spring Tea Soirée hosted by His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Cassian Aurelius…
The date was set for two weeks from now. My fingers tightened on the parchment. This was it. The event.
In the original timeline, Rosalind had attended that tea party glowing with nervous excitement. Seraphina, her "dearest friend", had pressed a delicate cup into her hands. "For courage," she'd whispered. Rosalind, wanting to impress the prince, had taken the cup to him herself. He'd drunk it and collapsed moments later, and the guards had found the poison residue in Rosalind's teacup—the one she'd abandoned in her panic.
The evidence had been overwhelming: her public infatuation, the poison purchased from an apothecary by a servant who vaguely matched her description, and her own tearful, confused confession extracted after three sleepless nights in the dungeons. A confession she didn't even remember giving.
A perfect, elegant frame-up.
I opened a small jewellery box in the vanity. Among hairpins and pearl earrings, a folded note fluttered out. The handwriting was a flowing, feminine script I recognised from shared study sessions.
Dearest Rosa,
Don't be nervous about the tea! I've arranged a little something to help you shine. Meet me in the west garden an hour before. I'll have a special blend to steady your nerves. Our secret!
— Your Sera
Ice settled in my stomach. The "special blend". The first step of the trap, laid with a smile.
A sharp rap at the door, different from the maid's timid knock, made me straighten.
"Rosalind? Are you decent? It's me."
The voice was sweet as honey, bright with false concern. Seraphina Vale.
I had less than three seconds to decide my approach. The original Rosalind would have flown to the door, eager for her friend's company. Selene the Saint would have greeted her with cautious politeness. But I was neither. I was the woman who had seen the mechanism of this trap from its bloody conclusion.
I slipped the note back into the jewellery box and closed it with a soft click. "Come in."
The door opened, and there she was. Lady Seraphina Vale, in the flesh. Strawberry blonde curls artfully arranged, green eyes wide and guileless, a picture of youthful innocence in a pale pink day dress. She was beautiful in the way a porcelain doll is beautiful—perfect, delicate, and utterly hollow.
"There you are! Eloise said you weren't feeling well." She swept into the room, a cloud of rosewater perfume trailing behind her. Her eyes scanned me with quick, assessing sharpness that belied her gentle tone. "You look pale. Was last night's astronomy lecture too taxing?"
Last night. The astronomy tower. A fragment of memory surfaced—Rosalind, giddy and nervous, confiding in Seraphina about her plan to "accidentally" encounter the Crown Prince there under the stars. Seraphina had encouraged her, of course.
"A headache," I said, keeping my voice neutral. I turned to arrange the bottles on the vanity, avoiding her searching gaze. "I thought rest would be best."
"Of course, of course." She drifted closer, her reflection appearing beside mine in the mirror. The contrast was striking: her warm, rosy complexion against my deliberate pallor, her calculated warmth against my measured coolness. "But you must take care of yourself, especially with the prince's tea party approaching! Everyone will be watching."
There it was. The first hook.
"I've been thinking about that," I said, picking up a hairbrush. "Perhaps it's not wise for me to attend. Given… everything."
A flicker of something—irritation? alarm?—passed through her green eyes so quickly I might have imagined it. "Not attend? Rosalind, don't be silly! This is your chance. He's finally noticed you. After the astronomy tower…" She leaned in, a conspiratorial smile on her lips. "He asked about you, you know. When you left early."
A lie. In the original timeline, Cassian hadn't given Rosalind a second thought until she was accused of trying to kill him. Seraphina was feeding the infatuation, stoking the fire that would eventually consume her.
"Did he?" I murmured, brushing my silver-blonde hair with steady strokes. "How kind."
My lack of enthusiasm finally registered. Seraphina's smile stiffened. "Is something wrong? You seem… different today."
If only you knew. I met her eyes in the mirror. "Do I? Perhaps I'm just tired of games."
The words hung in the air, dangerously close to a line Rosalind would never have crossed. Seraphina's mask slipped for a full second, revealing cold calculation beneath. Then the sweet concern was back, layered thicker than before.
"Oh, my dear." She placed a hand on my shoulder. Her touch was light, but it took every ounce of my will not to flinch away. "I know you're anxious. That's why I've prepared that special tea for us. To calm your nerves before the party. Just like we planned."
The second hook, baited and set.
I looked at her hand on my shoulder, then up at her face. This girl—no, this weapon disguised as a girl—was my executioner. She was the one who would hand me the cup, watch me carry my own death to the prince, and then weep dramatically as I was dragged away.
A hot, foreign anger surged through me. It wasn't just Selene's rage at betrayal. It was Rosalind's fury, a raw, desperate emotion that had been smothered by fear and confusion in the original timeline. It rose now, a phantom pain from a soul not entirely gone, and fused with my own resolve.
"Perhaps," I said slowly, removing her hand from my shoulder with deliberate grace. "But I find my nerves are steadier when I'm clear-headed. I think I'll face the party without… assistance."
Seraphina blinked, her composure cracking. This was not in her script. The pliable, lovesick Rosalind was refusing the bait. "But… we agreed. It's our secret."
"Some secrets are best left untried." I turned fully to face her, letting her see the change in me. The violet eyes held no trace of girlish adoration; instead, they displayed a calm, unsettling focus. "Don't you agree, Lady Seraphina?"
The use of her title, formal and distant, was a slap. Colour touched her cheeks—real anger this time, poorly concealed. "Of course. If that's your wish." She took a step back, her sweetness now edged with frost. "I merely hoped to help my friend."
"Your concern is noted." I gave her a small, polite smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should prepare for my morning meditation. The Church teaches that quiet reflection often cures what ails us better than any tonic."
The mention of the Church made her frown. The original Rosalind had been pious in a shallow, decorative way. Her voice sounded different. Deeper.
"Since when do you meditate?" she asked, suspicion sharpening her tone.
"Since today," I said simply, walking to the door and holding it open. A clear dismissal.
For a moment, she stood frozen, her mind visibly racing to recalibrate. The pawn was moving independently. This was a problem. But she was a skilled player; she recovered with a brittle smile.
"Very well. Rest well, Rosalind. I do hope you feel like yourself again soon."
The barb was deliberate. Yourself. The foolish, manipulable girl.
"Thank you," I said. "I'm beginning to."
She left, the scent of roses and deception lingering behind her. I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart pounding. First direct engagement: complete. I had drawn a line. She knew I was different. The game was now in the open, even if the weapons were still hidden.
But as I stood there, a chilling realisation dawned. By changing my actions—by refusing the pre-tea meeting—I had already altered the timeline. Seraphina would need a new plan. Would she accelerate the plot? Choose a different method? Frame me for something else?
The red thread of death I'd sensed earlier seemed to pulse, a reminder.
I had three months to unravel a conspiracy that had taken root long before Rosalind ever poured a cup of tea. I needed information. I needed allies. And I needed to understand the strange new sense inside me—the ability to see the threads of fate.
Pushing away from the door, I returned to the desk. I would start with the academy's public records, attendance logs, anything to trace Seraphina's movements and connections. And I needed to investigate Cassian. What was he doing, right now, while he played the charming crown prince?
As I reached for a fresh piece of parchment, a wave of dizziness washed over me. Behind my eyes, the world fragmented for a second into a web of faint, glowing lines. Gold, silver, blue… and that relentless, pulsing red thread leading from my chest out the door, following the path Seraphina had taken.
The system's gift. Or it's a warning.
I gripped the edge of the desk. The vision faded, leaving behind a stark, certain knowledge.
The execution date wasn't just a day on a calendar. The execution date felt like a living entity that was actively pursuing me. And I had just let the hunter know her prey could see her coming.