The pyre crackled beneath her bare feet, the scent of burning rosemary and betrayal thick in the air. Seraphina Ashwyn stood atop a scaffold of timber, her once-golden gown soaked in oil, a cruel mockery of the riches she once possessed.
They called her a witch.They called her a traitor.They had no idea what she truly was.
A monster? No.A fool? Once.But never again.
As the priestess recited rites she no longer believed in, Seraphina's eyes searched the crowd—thousands gathered, faces twisted in delight, rage, and fear. And at the front, standing under the imperial crest, stood the man who sentenced her with silence.
Duke Lucien Thorne.
The man who once kissed her fingertips and whispered promises beneath moonlight now watched her execution with eyes like frozen steel. Not hatred. Not grief. Just detachment—as if she were no more than an inconvenient memory.
Seraphina's lips curved. Her skin blistered. Her blood boiled. And yet, her spine remained straight.
"I curse you, Lucien," she whispered, too softly for the crowd but loudly enough for the sky. "May the fire that burns me follow you until your final breath."
A spark leapt. A flame roared.
The pain came swiftly—but the visions came faster.
Memories. No—premonitions.
Flashes of a different time.Alaric kneeling before a bloodstained crown.A child with her eyes but someone else's voice.A ledger etched in runes.A knife in the dark.
And then—
A pull.
Like a hook behind her ribcage, yanking her backward, upward, outward—into nothingness.
She woke to the scent of lavender soap and parchment.
Seraphina bolted upright, gasping.
Not ash. Not pain. Just silk sheets and heavy velvet curtains. Her fingers trembled as they gripped the bedpost—solid mahogany, carved with the crest of House .
She stumbled to the mirror across the chamber.
And froze.
The reflection wasn't the scorched husk of a woman murdered by empire and betrayal.
It was her. Nineteen years old. Flawless skin. Unscarred throat. Eyes wide with disbelief.
Her hands flew to her face. Her cheeks. Her neck.
"No... no, this can't be..."
But everything around her said otherwise.
This was her childhood room. The same mirror with the chipped edge. The same embroidered robe hanging beside the armoire.
A calendar rested on the desk—June 9th, Year 865.
Five years before the pyre.
She staggered back into the bed and covered her mouth.
She remembered everything.
The lies.The engagement.The whispers.The moment Lucien turned his back.The moment she chose love over caution and lost everything.
She had died.And she had returned.
"Lady Seraphina?" A soft knock at the door pulled her from her trance.
It was Mary, her handmaid—alive, unaware, still warm and breathing.
"Yes," Seraphina called out, her voice hoarse. "Come in."
The girl entered with a tray of breakfast: warm bread, honeyed tea, and fresh berries.
"Your father requests your presence in the drawing room. He says it's urgent."
Seraphina blinked. Her father. Lord . He would still be alive.
She rose slowly, allowing Mary to help her into a silver-blue gown.
As the corset was tied, Seraphina caught a glimpse of herself again.
How naïve she had been in this body.How easily manipulated.How utterly... stupid.
But this time—this time would be different.
She would not be soft.She would not beg for love.She would not become anyone's pawn.
The Seraphina who died had burned as a lamb.The Seraphina who returned?
She would reign as the wolf.
The drawing room smelled of pipe smoke and polish. Lord Ashwyn stood by the window, reading a letter sealed with the black wax of the imperial court.
"Father," she greeted.
He turned, eyes tired but warm. "Seraphina. Good, you're awake. You'll want to sit for this."
She already knew what the letter said. Her hands remained calm in her lap.
"The Emperor has confirmed your engagement," he said.
"To the Duke of Thorne."
Seraphina's lips didn't even twitch. "When does he arrive?"
"In three days," her father replied, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're taking this… calmly."
She tilted her head, voice serene. "Is it not good news?"
Lord looked away. "Some say the Duke is... cursed. Others say he is merely cold. Dangerous. Ruthless. Yet, the Emperor favors him."
"Yes," she said quietly. "I know."
And I remember exactly why.
Back in her chambers, Seraphina dismissed the maids early and drew the velvet drapes closed. She lit a single candle and placed it before her mirror.
From beneath her jewelry box, she retrieved an old, dust-covered diary.
The only item she had brought with her from the past life.
Its pages were blank—yet her memories were inked deep within her.
Names. Dates. Secrets.
The girl who once feared shadows now walked hand-in-hand with them.
Lucien Thorne thought she was weak.
He would learn otherwise.
This time, she would become the villain they feared.
And this time, he would be the one to burn.