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 consort.
Now, he knelt beside her — the man she had lash 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.
"Velastra Noctis... 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 hers, 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.
Now, she is afraid of death. She desires more breath to live with him until she no longer fears 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 heaven."
And darkness claimed her.
---
The first thing she felt was warmth.
Not the heat of battle or the fever of poison tearing through cursed veins—but a blooded fury burning in her hand. The smell of blood and incense. The sound of strained breath.
The weight of a whip in her hand.
Her eyes snapped open.
She stood at the top of the ceremonial dais, sunlight pouring through the high windows like liquid gold. And below her—on his knees, chained, shirt torn and back flayed open—Cael.
Her fingers tightened around the braided handle of the whip.
Seraciel.
Forged in silence. Blessed by the Divine Court. Its very purpose is to seal, to suppress, and to break Cael's ability to heal.
And she had wielded it with exquisite cruelty.
A gasp escaped her lips. A sound far too soft for the woman she had once been.
Her eyes darted across the hall—guards lined along the walls, stone-faced. Servants were watching with a mix of horror and reverence. Blood pooled beneath Cael's knees, and his arms trembled as he held himself upright, refusing to fall.
Her hand burned with the weight of the lash in her grip.
She had just struck the ninety-ninth.
One more lash.
One final blow.
And then, history would repeat.
No.
No.
Her breath came in shallow bursts. Not from exertion—but shock. Memory surged like fire through her veins.
Her death. The betrayal of her father. The shattering of her seal. Noctar's voice whispering through the void. The moment she fell, her hatred devouring her own soul—and Cael, who had carried her from the ruins, body broken and bloodied, whispering forgiveness she never deserved.
And now—this.
The past.
No.
Her second chance.
"Your Highness?" a voice called softly—her steward, confused at her sudden stillness.
She looked down again.
Cael.
Blood clung to his skin. His back was a map of red lines and flesh carved open. His head hung low, hair soaked with sweat.
He did not plead.
He never had.
She stood with blood on her hands and sunlight on her face.
The whip—Seraciel—hung from her fingers, slick with red, its sacred weight biting into her palm like judgment. Below her, Cael knelt. Bare-chested, skin torn, shoulders trembling—yet unbowed.
And Velastra—not the same Velastra—woke in the eye of her own storm.
Not hatred.
Not vengeance.
Only the hollow ache of remorse and the unbearable sting of love realized too late.
Her heart clenched. Her breath faltered. The walls of her cruelty crumbled like ash in her throat.
She opened her fingers.
Seraciel fell.
The lash clattered against the dais with a final, metallic cry—one that echoed like the end of a reign.
"Take him," she said, voice shaking but sovereign. "To the healers. Now."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
But Velastra didn't look at them.
She looked only at him—the man who had bled in silence, who had borne her hatred with dignity, who had chosen her over vengeance
The guards didn't move.
"I said NOW!" Her voice surged with the same authority—but this time, it wasn't cruel. It was desperate. Alive.
They rushed forward. Servants scurried. And Cael—barely conscious—was lifted from the ground.
She sank to her knees in his blood, trembling.
Her hands touched the blood-slicked floor, her breath catching in her throat.
In her past life, she had destroyed him. Body, heart, and soul.
In this life, she would undo it all—if it cost her crown, her power, even her soul again.
She whispered into the silence of that great and bloody hall:
"In this life, regret will never be my final word."