Dawn arrived too quickly, like a blade, sharp and cold, slicing mercilessly through the stillness that had settled over the palace courtyard like a heavy shroud. Frost clung stubbornly to every surface—the uneven cobblestones beneath Seraphina's feet sparkled like shattered glass, their jagged edges biting cruelly at the soles of her feet. Each breath she drew filled her lungs with icy shards that seared her throat, and when she exhaled, ragged clouds slipped free, vanishing swiftly into the brittle morning air.
The courtyard lay beneath a muted gray sky, heavy with silence. The only sound was the clanging of heavy chains around her too-thin wrists from days spent wasting away in the dungeons. The cold bit into her exposed skin, turning her bare arms numb and stiff. The faintest whisper of a breeze stirred the frozen air, carrying with it the sharp scent of damp earth and the faint tang of smoke from distant hearths. Somewhere beyond the high stone walls, birds stirred uneasily, their timid calls swallowed by the oppressive quiet.
Around her, the gathered crowd formed a sea of blurred faces—nobles and servants alike—each one a faceless witness to her downfall. Their eyes gleamed with morbid curiosity, veiled contempt, and hidden satisfaction. The low murmur of whispered conversations rose and fell like restless waves, punctuated by the occasional sharp intake of breath or the soft rustle of fabric against stone. No one dared meet her gaze with mercy or pity. She was alone.
Her body trembled, but not from the cold alone. The iron shackles that bound her wrists bit mercilessly into her skin, the unforgiving metal rough and unyielding, sending jagged waves of pain shooting through her arms. Her once-proud gown—a shimmering cascade of silk and lace—now hung in tatters, threadbare and stained with grime and dried blood. The rough edges scraped raw against bruised flesh, each subtle movement a fresh sting. She shivered, but the real chill lay not in the winter's frost—it was the weight of betrayal pressing down on her chest, heavy and suffocating.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, desperate for a familiar face—a flicker of hope amid the storm. At last, they found him: King Theodric, seated heavily upon his gilded throne. His posture was slumped, defeated, as if invisible chains bound his shoulders tighter than the iron that held her. His hands rested limply on the carved arms, trembling faintly with grief. His eyes, once fierce and commanding, now clouded with sorrow and impotence, haunted by the tragedy unfolding before him. He did not move, did not speak, did not save her—could not save her. Just as he could not save his beloved, the former queen—her mother.
Beside him, the queen—her stepmother—sat trembling, tears streaming silently down her pale cheeks, eyes cast downward as if afraid to look at what was to come. One hand clutched the folds of her gown tightly, knuckles white from the effort to hold herself together, while the other clung to a handkerchief that Seraphina had embroidered for her years ago. The soft, muffled sobs that escaped her lips were raw with grief and loss.
Seraphina's gaze lingered on the queen's sorrowful face, and for a fleeting moment, her chest tightened with unexpected pity. 'If only I could prove I was innocent.'
The queen's display of anguish seemed heartfelt, a stark contrast to the cold smiles Seraphina had come to dread.
The scent of lavender wafted faintly from the queen's robes, mingling with the cold morning air—a comforting fragrance that momentarily softened Seraphina's bitter thoughts. Yet beneath the queen's sorrow, Seraphina felt a subtle chill—something unspoken, a quiet strength that masked the fragility.
As her eyes shifted across the courtyard, they fell on Princess Althea's composed face and the sharp smile that Seraphina had come to associate with ruthless ambition. And then there was Caelum, whose distant, icy gaze felt like a silent condemnation.
In that moment, Seraphina's heart ached with bitter betrayal—it was her sister and fiancé who had conspired to ruin her.
Her sister Althea sat like a poised statue, her delicate features composed into a mask of innocence. Yet her smile was a razor's edge wrapped in elegance, ambition blazing raw and unapologetic in her eyes. She had watched, waited, and now reveled in the slow ruin of the sister she once envied. No longer the illegitimate daughter of King Theodric, she now stood as the one and only heiress of Virelyn.
At the periphery of the crowd, Prince Caelum's dark eyes were fixed on her, cold and impenetrable. The warmth that had once drawn her to him had vanished, replaced by a vast, empty void. His silence was deafening—the final betrayal.
The herald's voice shattered the silence, booming across the courtyard like thunder rolling over barren mountains.
"Seraphina Elira Virelyn, daughter of King Theodric, you stand accused of high treason against the crown. You have conspired with enemies to overthrow the rightful king. How do you plead?"
Her throat constricted painfully, dry and raw as if lined with sandpaper. Yet she forced the words from trembling lips, steady and unwavering.
"Innocent."
The single word was fragile—a lone candle flickering in a tempest of condemnation.
Memories crashed into her mind like violent waves: her mother's gentle touch, laughter echoing through sunlit palace gardens, whispered promises of peace now distant and broken. She recalled the fever that stole her mother away, the hushed whispers of poison.
Her trial had been a grotesque mockery—a spectacle designed to serve darker ambitions. Evidence twisted, allies silenced, truth buried beneath layers of lies. She was a pawn in a deadly game played by unseen hands.
The executioner stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding against the stone with grim finality. He raised the gleaming axe high above his head, the cruel blade catching the fragile light and flashing like a promise of death. The crowd held its breath, frozen in the unbearable moment before fate's final verdict.
The rough, cold surface of the execution block pressed against her cheek, its chill seeping deep into her skin. Her heart thundered fiercely—not with terror, but with a fire that refused to be extinguished.
A single tear slipped free, carving a cold path through dirt and dust down her face.
Her last thought blazed with fierce defiance:
This is not the end.
The blade fell.
A piercing scream.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
***
Darkness was replaced with light. The air was warm and fragrant, heavy with the scent of jasmine and something faintly sweet—like aged parchment kissed by vanilla. Seraphina's eyes fluttered open.
The gentle rustle of silk sheets whispered beneath her trembling hands, a soothing contrast to the nightmare that clung to her mind. For a long moment, confusion overwhelmed her—thick, suffocating, relentless.
'Where am I?'
Her breath came quick and shallow as she struggled to move, startled by the unfamiliar lightness of her body. It was smaller, more fragile—almost unreal. Confused, she raised her hands to look at them. Her hands, once scarred and bruised, were now delicate and unblemished; fingers slender and pale as the finest porcelain.
Her heart thundered wildly, a frantic drumbeat echoing through her chest. Panic ignited like wildfire.
'Did I really die? Is this an illusion?'
With trembling strength, she forced herself to sit up. The soft silk slipped from her shoulders, revealing smooth, unmarked skin. No pain. No chains. No blood.
Her eyes searched wildly across the richly adorned chamber. Heavy velvet curtains framed tall windows, through which morning sunlight spilled, casting golden patterns on polished wooden floors. Ornate tapestries adorned the walls, and shelves lined with leather-bound tomes whispered forgotten secrets. The scent of jasmine lingered like a fragile promise.
Her gaze landed on a tall, gilded mirror across the room.
She rose, each step slow and unsteady as though learning to walk again.
The reflection that greeted her was both familiar and impossible.
A girl no older than fifteen stared back—wide-eyed and pale, silver hair cascading over delicate shoulders, eyes shimmering with fear and disbelief.
She raised her hand towards the mirror, her reflection copying her movement.
Seraphina's breath caught painfully.
"No," she whispered, voice trembling, her arms dropped, and her reflection followed. "T-this can't be... this isn't real."
Desperation flooded her as she reached out, fingertips trembling, to touch the cold glass, needing to confirm she truly existed.
Suddenly, memories crashed upon her like merciless waves—sharp, relentless, overwhelming.
The betrayal. The lies. The cold dawn. The judgment. The blade.
Her death.
And now this.
Her pulse thundered like war drums as the impossible truth settled within her: she was alive, not just merely alive—she was young again. She had returned to the body and time of her fifteen-year-old self.
A flood of raw emotions overwhelmed her—relief, fear, confusion, and rage.
How? Why?
Had fate granted me a second chance—or was this some cruel torment?
Her mind raced wildly, desperate to grasp the impossible.
She touched her neck, her arms, searching for some mark, some sign—but found nothing. No scar, no wound, no stain of death.
She could still feel it all. The biting frost, the rough stone, the cold steel. But all of it had vanished at once—replaced by warmth, softness, and the spark of a chance.
The crushing weight of the moment fell upon her shoulders.
If this was real—if she truly had been given back her life—then she had no time to waste.
The forces that had conspired against her still lurked in the shadows of the court.
Her sister's ambition, sharp and burning.
Caelum's coldness and silence.
All threads woven into a dark web she must unravel.
Seraphina swallowed hard, determination tightening in her throat.
She had been a pawn once.
But now, she would be the player.
No longer naive, she would wield her knowledge like a blade.
She will prepare.
She will survive.
She will reclaim all that was stolen from her.
Her eyes burned with fierce resolve as she whispered into the silent chamber,
"This time, I will win."