She died in silence.
No grand declarations, no last screams of defiance. Only the shivering rustle of torn silk against cold stone as her body collapsed upon the blood-slick floor of what used to be her throne room.
The scent of jasmine clung to her skin, warped by the stench of iron and smoke. Her fingers, once proud, trembled weakly against the edge of her shattered sword. It had fallen during the siege, much like everything else — her father's kingdom, her pride, her body.
She had been stripped of them all.
A guttural breath escaped her lungs. The taste of copper bloomed on her tongue. In the distance, bells tolled—funeral or victory, she could no longer tell.
Then came the footsteps.
Measured. Soft. Not like the soldiers who had defiled her, nor like the coward king who had fled into the night. These were careful, reverent.
She turned her head slowly. Even now, on the edge of death, her pride bit like a blade.
It was him.
The man she had once called dog. The prince of the defeated, chained and humiliated beneath her rule. Her princess consort.
Now, he knelt beside her — the man she had lashed until his flesh wept, the man she had hated her entire life, the man whose moans of pain had once lulled her to sleep.
He pressed trembling fingers to her wrist, searching for a pulse he already knew was weak. He knew she will be gone soon. Then, his freedom will be eternity.
Still, he whispered her name like it was holy.
"Your Highness... please... stay."
She watched the tears fall from his cheeks. Warm, silent, absurd.
She had broken him. And yet he knelt here, making her whole. She had destroyed his kingdom. And yet he bleeds there in the battlefield, protecting hers. She had wielded her mother like a weapon against him. And yet, she had shielded her, kept her untouched by the war she waged.
Something cracked inside her, deeper than her defeat. At this moment, rather than regret, she will be satisfied dying by his sword.
Why? Why do you look at me like that? After everything I've done to you...
She tried to ask, but her voice had long since fled her broken ribs.
She now became afraid of death. She desires more breath to live with him until she no longer afraid of being breathless.
It was then that the world darkened. Not with death, but with something older — colder. Shadows stretched like skeletal hands across the hall. The air chilled, thick with ancient breath. Her soul the only color of the dark.
A presence unfurled behind her. Cloaked in velvet night.
"Princess," the voice said, low and echoing. "You've reached the end. But not the end of all things."
She knew the name without needing to hear it.
Noctar, Lord of the Grim Reapers. His name was a legend among streets. The one who gathers reaper through tales of rebirths.
"Make your pact, and I shall return you. But know this — your return will be shackled by rules. You will serve me after, and no reincarnations will be gifted under your name. You may not speak of this life. You may not steal from fate with your knowledge. If your truth is revealed, your soul will be mine... earlier than your fateful death."
Her gaze flickered to the prince once more. He clutched her body now, weeping into her bloodstained hair. Not with hatred. Not with vengeance.
But she's hoping it was love.
His name was the prayer of her soul. He was the gravity that held her sanity. She wanted him, wholly and without question, with a longing that eclipsed reason. To leave was never her option.
"Do we have a deal?" the reaper asked.
She didn't hesitate.
"Yes," she breathed. "Can I choose when to live again?"
"That's gravely against heavens."
And darkness claimed her.
---
The first thing she felt was warmth.
Not the heat of battle or the fever of poison coursing through broken veins—but a gentle, human warmth. The weight of silk blankets. The soft hum of breath not her own.
Her eyes snapped open.
Above her, an ornate canopy shimmered faintly in the morning light—ivory lace and golden trim. Familiar, yet distant. A memory blurred by lifetimes. Her lungs dragged in air like a newborn, and for one fragile second, she could not move.
Then—
Pain surged through her spine.
Not the agony of death. No torn flesh or bruised limbs. No soldiers. No blood.
But the pain of memory.
Her death. The ruin. The betrayal of her father. The prince—the man she had once degraded—carrying her broken body through fire and ash, shielding her even after she had carved her hatred into his skin.
And then... Noctar.
The pact.
She sat up sharply, choking on a gasp. Her hands flew to her chest. No wounds. No blood. Skin smooth, unmarred. Young again.
She scrambled to the edge of the bed. Her knees buckled against polished marble floors as her legs hit the ground. The room spun. Cold sweat slicked her brow.
A mirror.
She staggered to the polished bronze frame hanging over the vanity. When she saw herself, she nearly wept.
Nineteen. Again.
Eyes like polished obsidian, sharp and defiant. No bruises. No death. Her hair was neatly coiled in braids threaded with pearls—her hair.
What year is this...?
Her fingers trembled as she reached for a nearby journal. The date inked in delicate handwriting stole the breath from her chest.
Three years into the union. The very year she had broken him hardest.
The very year she had made him bleed beneath her silken sheets, drunk on revenge and lust and sorrow.
He's still here...
Her heart pounded. She clutched the edge of the desk, fighting nausea, shame, and something else far more dangerous:
Hope.
A soft knock interrupted the spiral.
"Your Highness?" A servant's voice, timid. "His Highness... collapsed again. The physician is requesting you come at once."
She froze.
Collapsed...?
No.
She remembered now— A hundred lashes. Starvation. Isolation. She had used sex as punishment, the drip of his blood is her pleasure, a sick weapon wielded in the name of her brother's death. Cael had borne it all. In silence. In obedience.
And in this very year, he had fallen deathly ill.
She swallowed hard.
The universe had given her one chance. One fragile, bloodstained path toward redemption.
She stood on unsteady legs and whispered into the silence:
"I will not waste this life."
She turned toward the door, her silk robe trailing behind her like the remnants of a crown made of ghosts.