The palace smelled of lotus incense and execution.
Li Xueyan stood beneath the Vermilion Gate of the Inner Court, wrists bound in silk that once symbolized imperial favor. Tonight, it marked her as a traitor.
Above her, banners snapped in the cold wind like restless spirits. Crimson silk embroidered with golden dragons. The same dragons she had knelt before ten years ago when she became Empress of the Great Yan Empire.
The same dragons that watched her now as she awaited death.
The courtyard was full.
Ministers in layered robes. Generals armored in polished steel. Palace consorts veiled in false sorrow.
And on the highest jade platform—
Him.
Emperor Yan Zhen.
Her husband.
Her executioner.
He sat on the temporary tribunal throne as though carved from the night itself. Black robes. Gold-threaded cuffs. A face sculpted by heaven and sharpened by power.
He did not look at her.
The High Minister's voice rang out, thin and theatrical.
"Li Xueyan, former Empress of Yan, you stand accused of colluding with the Southern Coalition and conspiring to assassinate His Majesty."
A murmur rippled through the court.
Xueyan did not lower her head.
The accusation was absurd.
But she understood now.
Truth had never been the point.
Her eyes lifted slowly.
They found him.
Yan Zhen's gaze was steady. Cold. Unreadable.
That hurt more than chains.
"I ask only once," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard. "Was it you?"
The wind stilled.
Even the torches seemed to hesitate.
His eyes met hers fully for the first time that night.
There was something there.
Not hatred.
Not satisfaction.
Something deeper.
Something that made her chest tighten painfully.
"You were careless," he replied.
The words struck harder than any blade.
Careless.
Not innocent.
Not beloved.
Careless.
A faint smile touched her lips.
"I see."
Behind her, soldiers stepped forward with a brazier.
The flames were wrong.
Not ordinary execution fire.
They burned white-gold.
Spiritual fire.
Designed not just to kill the body—
But annihilate the soul.
Her breath faltered for the first time.
He was not merely condemning her.
He was erasing her.
The High Minister declared the sentence.
"Li Xueyan is hereby stripped of title and burned for treason."
The brazier was overturned.
Flame surged around her like a living creature.
The heat was unbearable.
Silk ignited first.
Then flesh.
Then bone.
Pain devoured language.
The world narrowed to fire and breath and memory—
Yan Zhen's hand steadying hers on their wedding night.
His voice in the war tent: "Trust no one but me."
The way he had once looked at her as if she were not merely Empress—
But necessary.
The flames climbed higher.
Her vision blurred.
She laughed.
Softly.
Because in that final instant—
She understood.
This was not politics.
This was protection.
Someone had forced his hand.
And whoever it was—
Would pay.
Her lips moved through smoke.
"If there is another life…"
The fire entered her lungs.
"I will never love you again."
The courtyard disappeared.
Light shattered.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
—
Then—
Cold.
Air rushed into her chest violently.
Xueyan jolted upright.
No chains.
No courtyard.
No fire.
Instead—
Canopy curtains of pale blue silk.
The scent of sandalwood.
Morning light.
Her hands trembled as she stared at them.
Unburned.
Smooth.
Young.
A copper mirror sat on the dressing table nearby.
She rose on unsteady legs.
Approached it slowly.
The reflection nearly made her collapse.
She was seventeen again.
Before marriage.
Before the throne.
Before betrayal.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Miss? It is time to prepare for the palace audience."
Her blood froze.
Palace audience.
The day Crown Prince Yan Zhen would formally request her as his consort.
The beginning of everything.
Her fingers gripped the table.
Ten years.
She had returned ten years.
Her pulse thundered.
Memory crashed into clarity.
Southern Coalition.
High Minister Qiao.
The secret memorial she intercepted the week before her death.
The name hidden within it.
The Duke of Liang.
A conspiracy layered beneath conspiracy.
She had died before she could expose it.
Her execution had been necessary—
To silence her.
And Yan Zhen—
He had chosen the empire over her.
Or perhaps…
He had believed she could survive it.
A flicker of heat bloomed low in her abdomen.
Wrong.
Not emotion.
Energy.
Her breath hitched.
Something inside her chest responded to memory.
A pulse.
Like a heartbeat not her own.
Warm.
Ancient.
Hungry.
She pressed her palm to her sternum.
The warmth flared.
A whisper moved through her veins.
Phoenix.
Xueyan staggered backward.
No.
That power had been sealed.
Forbidden.
Erased with her death.
Unless—
It had not perished.
Unless it had waited.
For her return.
The door opened cautiously.
Her maid, Chunhua, stepped inside.
"Miss? You must not delay. The Crown Prince—"
Xueyan turned.
And Chunhua froze.
Something in her gaze had changed.
It was not the gaze of a sheltered noble girl.
It was the gaze of someone who had died.
"Prepare the crimson gown," Xueyan said softly.
Chunhua blinked. "The crimson? But that is too bold for a first audience—"
"Crimson."
Her tone did not rise.
But it did not need to.
Chunhua bowed quickly.
"Yes, Miss."
As the maid hurried to obey, Xueyan returned to the mirror.
Her reflection stared back.
You will not be weak this time.
You will not walk blindly into love.
You will not trust.
And you will not burn.
Outside, palace bells began to ring.
Summoning nobles to court.
Summoning destiny.
Xueyan's lips curved slightly.
Let it come.
This time—
She would be the fire.