Three days.
That was all the time she had before Lucien Thorne, Duke of Thorne and the man who had once held her hand as the flames consumed her, would step through the doors of Ashwyn Manor again.
To the world, it was a political engagement — a match forged by power and titles.To Seraphina, it was the beginning of the end.Twice.
In her past life, she'd worshipped him. Lucien had been a storm wrapped in velvet, and she — a naive girl drawn to danger, mistaking silence for depth and coldness for wisdom.
And when the empire needed a scapegoat for the whispered magic staining its foundations, Lucien did nothing as she burned.
Now, she was back. Reborn. Scarred by memory, untouched in flesh.
And this time… she would not beg for love.
"Lady Seraphina," her maid Mary chirped, "shall I bring out your rose-pink gown for the Duke's arrival?"
Seraphina paused at her vanity, her fingers stilling over a brush. Pink.
That was the color she'd worn when she accepted Lucien's proposal. When she'd smiled like a fool and believed herself loved.
She turned slowly. "No."
Mary blinked. "No, my lady?"
"Burn it."
"B-Burn it?"
Seraphina stood. "That dress belonged to someone who died. I won't wear her again."
She crossed the room and opened a hidden chest beneath her window seat. Inside lay a gown she'd never worn in her first life — one she'd commissioned but deemed "too morbid."
Black velvet. Silver thread. A corseted waist and sleeves like starlit shadows.
"This," she whispered, lifting it, "is how one greets a man who watched her die."
The estate was abuzz with preparations. Everyone acted as if this engagement were a second chance.
But only Seraphina knew the truth — it was a battlefield.
She walked the halls with quiet authority, memorizing every portrait, every hidden door. In her first life, she had been too trusting, too docile. This time, she studied everything with a hunter's eye.
She met her father in the study that evening. Lord Ashwyn, once a strong-willed statesman, now bore the heaviness of political compromise.
"Lucien's envoy arrived this morning," he said. "He'll be here on the third day. Noon."
Seraphina said nothing.
"He's risen higher than any other duke in the court. You'll be at the center of power."
"Wasn't I already?" she asked softly. "Before I was sacrificed?"
Her father looked up sharply. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," she replied, smoothing her gloves. "Only that I hope this union proves… mutually beneficial."
He hesitated. "Seraphina, are you sure about this? There's still time to—"
"No," she cut in. "There isn't."
That night, Seraphina returned to the observatory.
It had once been her sanctuary. Now, it was her war room.
She opened her old diary — blank in this life, but overflowing in memory. She drew names and lines and secrets onto fresh pages, rebuilding the web she once died tangled in.
And at the center of it all was Lucien Thorne.
He wasn't just a noble.
He was the Emperor's most trusted sword. The quietest killer. The one no one dared oppose.
And he had secrets.
In her previous life, she'd only glimpsed them in flashes:— a hidden chamber behind his study— runes burned into his skin— a whispered name: Covenant of the Crown
Seraphina didn't know what Lucien truly was.
But she knew this:
He had spared her once — not because he loved her, but because he needed her gone.
This time, she would get close again.Closer than before.
And when he lowered his guard…
She would shatter him.
The morning before his arrival, a raven landed on her windowsill.
It was massive — eyes glowing faint violet, feathers glinting like oil in moonlight.
She opened the glass and held out her hand. The bird hopped onto her wrist, talons careful not to pierce skin.
A scroll unfurled from its leg.
She read the message:
"The fire never left you, did it?You smell like smoke and memory.I wonder, will you burn me too?"— L
Her hand trembled.
Lucien.
He remembered.
The carriage rolled into the estate under a sky thick with clouds.
Seraphina stood at the top of the stairs, dressed in black velvet and a silver pendant that pulsed softly — a relic she hadn't worn in five years.
Lucien stepped out of the carriage.
Gods, he hadn't changed.
Tall, elegant, with eyes like shadowed frost and gloves stitched with runes she now recognized.
He removed his hat, his dark hair tousled slightly by wind. Those watching might call him regal.
Seraphina knew better.
He was a blade pretending to be a man.
"Lady Ashwyn," he said.
"Your Grace."
His gaze swept her slowly. "You're wearing black."
"I'm in mourning," she replied.
"For what?"
She smiled faintly. "The girl I used to be."
They walked side by side through the halls. To others, it looked like elegance. Grace.
To Seraphina, it felt like standing beside a grave.
"You requested this engagement be reinstated," Lucien said without preamble.
"I did."
"Why?"
"Isn't it obvious?" she said, pausing beneath the stained-glass portrait of her great-grandmother — another woman executed by whispers.
Lucien tilted his head. "Nothing about you is obvious anymore."
She met his gaze. "Good."
A long silence stretched between them.
"I once offered you a choice," he said. "You chose me."
"And I died for it."
"Yet here you are," he said, voice low. "Back from the ashes. Still choosing me."
"No," she whispered. "I'm choosing revenge."