The scent of smoke was the last thing she remembered.
It clung to her skin, seeped into her lungs, and mixed with the iron tang of blood. Above her, the sky was an indifferent grey, and the crowd's roar blurred into a low, monstrous hum. They called her a witch. A traitor. The Duchess of Ruin.
Aria Valtoria had no tears left. Her hands, once adorned with rings of power and wealth, were now bound in rusted chains. Her once-loyal husband stood before her—expression unreadable, sword at his side. Behind him, her sister smirked from the shadows.
"I trusted you," Aria whispered, words lost to the wind.
Flames licked the base of the pyre.
She did not scream.
She remembered—
—and then woke to birdsong.
Her breath caught. She blinked, heart racing, and stared at the silk canopy above. The linens smelled of lavender. Her hands were unburnt, soft. Whole.
She sat up with a gasp.
A maid rushed in. "My Lady? Are you alright?"
The girl. Lydia. Her maid... but Lydia died five years ago.
Aria's fingers trembled as she reached for the mirror.
The face that stared back was younger. Fresher. No scar on her temple. No hollow look in her eyes.
Seventeen. She was seventeen again.
Her rebirth had come. And with it, a second chance.