She woke up angry.
Not frightened. Not confused.
Angry.
The sheets clung to her like cobwebs. Her breath was too steady. Her hands too dry.
She had died.
She had felt the metal scream through her throat. She had heard the gurgle of her own lungs collapsing.
And yet—here.
Again.
Still alive. Still breathing.
Still in silk.
She didn't dress carefully this time. No slow elegance. No gloves.
Just the knife from the drawer.
And silence.
She stepped out into the corridor barefoot. The carpet muffled her. The portraits watched.
This time, they would not smile.
She entered the dining hall as they were already seated. Cups raised. Words poised mid-conversation. Too polished to notice the storm in her.
Until it was too late.
She didn't speak.
She just moved.
The first blade went into Lord Tharyn's throat. Not clean—crooked and angry, twisted upward so the sound he made was wet and raw.
Lady Isara screamed. She didn't have time to finish it.
Steel bit through her open mouth, splitting her cry in half.
Blood sprayed the fruit bowl. Someone knocked over a goblet. One guard reached for his sword—
Too slow.
Visna carved her way through them with steady, surgical rage. Each thrust was a sentence. Each scream, punctuation.
"You don't remember anyway."
Stab.
"You never will."
Slash.
"I'll be dead again by morning."
Crack. Shatter. The table shook with the weight of corpses.
"You smile like gods," she whispered, driving her blade into Edric's eye, "but bleed like pigs."
They screamed.
Her husband ran in, called her name—
"Visna!"
He reached out.
The chandelier groaned above him.
She didn't warn him.
It fell.
Crushed him with the same iron heart that had once flattened her.
Marble cracked.
His hand, outstretched toward her, twitched once. Then never again.
Silence.
She stood there, blood on her face, on her nightgown, in her hair.
She dropped the knife.
And walked away.
No one tried to stop her.
Not anymore.
The market buzzed like nothing had happened.
She walked through it like a ghost with warm skin, whispering.
"They won't remember."
"They never do."
"I'll die again soon anyway."
She scanned the crowd. Faces blurred. Voices blurred. But her senses were sharpened.
She felt him.
Somewhere, the assassin watched.
She didn't know where. Didn't know who.
But she whispered his name without knowing it.
"I see you," she said softly. "I feel your shadow."
A turn of her head.
Nothing.
"The sun is going dark," she muttered. "I'll die again. Maybe this time it will be enough."
Someone brushed past her.
She flinched.
A child laughed.
A vendor called out prices.
The world kept turning like blood wasn't still drying on her skin.
She walked on.
No destination. No salvation.
Just waiting.
For the next ending.
The sun was too low.
Shadows stretched too long. Faces blurred into smudges of color and breath.
But the feeling—
That feeling—
It sharpened.
Someone was behind her.
Not close enough to touch. But close enough to smell. Dust. Steel. Cheap soap and cold sweat.
She didn't turn.
She waited.
Her eyes slid to the old market clock on the tower above.
One long hand, ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick—
There.
It landed on the exact minute she remembered dying.
Her throat bled again, in memory.
And this time, she was ready.
She dropped.
A full, sudden crouch—knees to stone, skirts tearing—just as the knife swept over her head.
She spun.
Her elbow slammed into soft flesh.
A gasp behind her.
She didn't think. Didn't need to.
She aimed lower.
Straight into his groin.
A satisfying crunch followed by a strangled howl.
The assassin folded inward, dropped the blade. His breath came in short, ugly stabs.
Visna caught the knife before it hit the ground.
Still warm from his grip.
Still hungry.
She rose like something born in fire.
And stabbed.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Into the ribs.
The throat.
The shoulder.
The face.
Blood sprayed against her hands, warm and wild. The assassin twitched, tried to crawl, but her knee pinned his chest.
"You thought I'd die easy?" she whispered.
Another stab.
"You thought I wouldn't learn?"
His eyes rolled.
Another.
"You picked the wrong ghost to follow."
She didn't stop until he stopped breathing.
And even then—
One more.
For good measure.
Her breath shuddered.
People had started to scream behind her.
Too late.
She stood.
Bloody. Unshaken.
And smiling.
Because now she had questions.
And one dead man wouldn't be enough.
Voices. Gasps. A single child's shriek.
Then silence.
That kind of silence that comes right before the storm.
Visna blinked.
She was still crouched over the corpse. Blood ran down her wrists, into the delicate embroidery of her sleeves. Her hands dripped red. Her face was calm.
Too calm.
Then came the footsteps.
Boots scraping on cobblestones.
One voice rose—panicked, broken—"She killed him!"
Heads turned. Eyes locked.
And then she ran.
She didn't look back. There was no time.
Her feet pounded against the stones, blood flecking the ground behind her. She pushed past a merchant. Shoved through a pair of women carrying baskets. Fruit spilled. Someone cursed.
She didn't stop.
A shout went up. Guards!
Another. There! The Lady! She has a knife!
She flung the blade into a gutter and turned sharply into an alley.
Wrong alley.
Two more guards at the other end.
Their eyes widened when they saw her, then narrowed in recognition.
"Lady Visna?" one said, uncertain.
She didn't wait for him to finish.
She spun on her heel and bolted back out, heart clawing against her ribs like a beast in a cage.
"Stop her!"
"She's armed!"
"She murdered a man in the square!"
The bells began to ring. Slow, solemn—justice bells.
And somewhere, high above the city, the market clock ticked on.
Visna didn't stop running.
Her lungs screamed, her blood roared in her ears. But when the alley split, and the guards closed in from both sides—silver breastplates gleaming, swords drawn—she knew she had no choice.
She turned with a snarl and lunged.
Her stolen dagger flashed in the low light, aimed at the soft part of a guard's throat. But he shifted just in time—steel met steel—and the blade skittered off his armor.
She tried again, lower this time, toward his gut.
Clang.
The knife bounced harmlessly off the plated cuirass.
Another guard grabbed her from behind. She screamed and slammed her elbow into his chin. He grunted but didn't let go. His grip tightened around her arms like iron bars. Another guard seized her legs.
She kicked. She bit. She twisted. She drove the blade toward an exposed joint at the armpit, but even there—chainmail.
It was like trying to kill statues.
They wrestled her to the ground, her body thrashing, her dress soaked with blood—not theirs, hers. From earlier. From always.
"Stop moving!" someone barked.
She didn't.
So they struck her.
A fist to the jaw.
Darkness bloomed behind her eyes.
And the world dropped away.
***
The next thing she knew, stone was beneath her.
Cold.
Damp.
A slow drip echoed somewhere in the dark. Metal groaned behind her.
She opened her eyes—barely—and saw bars.
A cell.
She was alone.
Her dress was torn. Her lip was bleeding. Her wrists were shackled to the wall.
She breathed once, sharply.
And laughed.
Bitter, breathless, and low.
"I stabbed nobles," she whispered.
She tilted her head back against the wall. "And I still didn't die."
Then she went silent again, watching the dark, waiting for the next version of her life to arrive.
The cell door creaked open.
Two guards stepped in, heavy boots scraping against the stone. One carried a coil of rope. The other, a small box made of blackened iron. It clicked as he opened it—quiet, deliberate, like someone unwrapping a gift they'd been looking forward to.
Inside were tools.
Not weapons. Not exactly.
Just sharp things. Blunt things. Heated things.
Visna didn't flinch.
"Speak," said the taller one. "Who sent you?"
She said nothing.
He knelt and grabbed her by the chin. "You're no noblewoman. Not anymore. That act's over. So tell us: Who ordered the killings?"
She stared at him.
He slapped her.
Hard.
The iron cuff on her wrist dug deeper into the bone. Her mouth filled with blood.
She spat on the floor.
"Wrong answer," said the other.
They began with her fingers.
Rope tightened around them, twisted slowly. Bone cracked—not all at once, but like ice under pressure. Her vision blurred, her back arched—but she didn't scream.
"Your employer," the shorter guard said. "We know you're trained. You knew where to strike. We saw it. The blade, the speed. That's not desperation. That's discipline."
Still, she said nothing.
They tried heat next.
The smell of burned skin filled the cell, clinging to the walls, the stone, her breath.
She kept her eyes open the whole time.
Eventually, one of them slammed a fist into the wall, furious. "She's not going to talk."
The other leaned closer. "You'll break. They always do."
Visna looked up at him, her face bruised, her mouth split, her body wrecked.
And smiled.
"Maybe," she whispered. "But not today."
They shoved her into a new cell.
The door slammed shut behind her — dull, final.
This one was larger. Wetter. The walls breathed mold and old blood. In the corners, shadows shifted — four, maybe five figures. Men, sunken-eyed and silent, with the look of creatures who hadn't seen daylight in weeks.
They looked up when she entered.
Silence spread. Not the usual kind. The kind that moves like oil across water — slow, heavy, dangerous.
Visna steadied herself, breath shallow, ribs bruised.
One of them stepped forward. Leathery skin. Hands too calm.
"Fresh meat," he said, grinning without warmth.
She stepped back.
He grabbed her arm.
Instinct struck before thought.
She lashed out with her knee. A sharp hit. Enough to make him stumble.
Another one laughed, a low, ugly sound. "Still got fire in her."
"And not for long," muttered a third.
A movement behind her. A hand brushed her hip — calculated, testing.
"If any of you touch me again," she hissed, voice hoarse and cold, "I will break your fingers. One by one."
Silence. Brief. Uncertain.
Then laughter again. But thinner now. Less certain.
They stopped moving.
One of them spat on the floor. "Fine. Keep your fire. Won't help you here."
She slid down against the wall, knees pulled to her chest. Hands shaking, but hidden. She didn't sleep. Not that night. Maybe never again.
There was no safety here.
But Visna was no longer willing to die.
They circled her like wolves, drawn to weakness like blood in the snow.
Visna didn't look up.
Back pressed to the cold stone, knees tight against her chest, fists clenched so hard her nails bit into skin.
One stepped forward—tall, thick-necked, with twitching fingers and a crooked grin.
"You think you're better than us?" he asked, voice low and sour.
She didn't answer.
"You're in the dirt now, girl. You're just meat," another voice said behind him.
Laughter cracked around her like breaking bones.
A boot lashed out and slammed into her thigh.
She flinched, but stayed upright.
A hand grabbed her collar, yanked—
She twisted, pulled away.
Wrong.
The tall one drove his fist across her cheek.
Her head snapped to the side.
A sharp taste bloomed—blood and iron.
Still, she made no sound. No tear. No word.
Another hit—her gut this time.
Then her ribs.
She folded in on herself.
Not from fear.
From instinct.
"To shield."
"To last."
"You're not gonna fight?" one of them spat.
"Then break. That's all you're good for."
Hands seized her.
Two held her down—wrists gripped like iron cuffs.
Ankles pinned. Skin to stone.
She struggled.
But they were many.
She was empty.
Starved.
Worn to the bone.
Another leaned down. His breath hot. Fingers reached for her face—
She moved.
Her knee exploded upward, struck soft.
He screamed, dropped.
She tore one arm free, grabbed a hand—
Bent the finger back until it snapped like dry wood.
A roar.
Then a blow.
Fist to skull.
Her vision shattered into sparks.
She sagged—then more came.
A boot crushed her ribs.
Another to her side.
She coughed blood.
Another to her neck.
And another.
She didn't cry. She couldn't.
The body still fought. But it was over.
Then it went quiet.
The world tipped.
Her breath fled.
Her eyes stayed open as her chest stopped rising.
Everything dimmed.
She died.
And then—
She woke.
On stone. Again.
Staring up at the ceiling, breathless. Blank.
Not screaming.
Not crying.
Just silence.
Just the ceiling.
Again.