Rain lashed the marble courtyard of Valeblume Palace, drowning out the thunder of thousands of boots, the rustle of velvet cloaks, and the rising voice of the herald.
Elara Valeblume Crown Princess, High Enchantress, heir to House Valeblume was on her knees, chained and soaked, before the kingdom she had once been raised to rule.
Around her, nobles watched from polished balconies under golden awnings. Their silks glimmered like oil in the rain. Not long ago, these same nobles had bowed to her, smiled at her, schemed behind her back with gentle words and sharpened fans. Now, they whispered like carrion birds, eager to see blood. Her blood.
"Elara Valeblume," the herald cried again, voice amplified by magic, "you stand accused of high treason, the assassination of the High Priestess, consorting with forbidden magic, and crimes against the realm."
No one moved to defend her. Of course they didn't.
Her robes clung to her skin ruined, torn. Her hands trembled against the wet stones, scraped raw and purple from the beatings. Her left eye was swollen shut. But her back? Still straight. Her chin? Still raised.
From the top of the black stairs, Crown Prince Kaelith Ravaryn stood beneath a stone arch carved with phoenix wings. Regal. Beautiful. Untouched by mud or guilt. His golden armor gleamed, his white cloak unblemished. His eyes sharp as the day she first loved him held no sorrow. No conflict.
Only judgment.
Elara stared up at him. Her lips were cracked, bleeding, but her voice rang out over the crowd like silver: "Cowards. All of you."
Gasps echoed like bells.
"Do you think this will save your precious throne?" she spat. "Burn me, drown me, erase me from your records. But the truth lives. And truth never stays buried."
A murmur swept the balconies, nobles leaning toward one another, whispering in alarm. Kaelith's jaw tightened. Good. Let them squirm.
Let him squirm.
"Silence her," someone growled was that the High Chancellor?
But Kaelith raised a gloved hand. The crowd hushed.
He descended the steps slowly, water pooling around his boots, and stopped only a breath away from her. Elara fought the instinct to recoil. She had loved this man once. She had dreamed of marrying him beneath the twin moons. Now, she only dreamed of tearing his kingdom down.
"Is there anything you wish to say, Princess?" he asked.
Her laugh was low and bitter. "You never called me that. Not even in bed."
Kaelith's gaze flickered anger? Embarrassment? No. Only cold detachment. The mask of a ruler.
He turned away.
"Then, by the crown's decree," the herald announced, "Elara Valeblume is to be executed at dawn by flame."
Another cheer. Louder this time. People throwing coins, curses, blessings, curses disguised as blessings. The fire was already lit at the pyre. Magic flames, conjured blue and hot by the royal mages. The air shimmered with the smell of scorched wood and wet oil.
Soldiers seized her arms. Dragged her through the mud.
She passed the noble houses one by one House Ravaryn, her former fiancé's line; House D'Ama, the spineless backstabbers; House Lysarin, where Lady Lysara watched with her pale, unreadable smile.
And finally… House Valeblume. Empty.
Her family was gone.
Her legacy? Condemned.
She was alone.
As the pyre loomed, Elara's heart pounded not in fear but in rage. In defiance. If this was the end, she would meet it with teeth bared.
They bound her to the pillar, arms spread like wings. Rain hissed against the flames, but could not stop them.
Kaelith nodded.
The mages raised their hands.
The fire came.
It started as warmth, then searing, crackling pain. Her skin blistered. Her throat tore from screaming but not in terror. She would not die begging.
Her eyes locked on the prince.
"Do not think this is over," she hissed, voice breaking. "I will return. You cannot kill fire."
And the just as the fire swallowed her
The world shattered.
A flash of silver light.
A ringing sound, like glass fracturing underwater.
Darkness fell.
She awoke with a scream.
Elara sat bolt upright, sweat clinging to her skin.
Not pain. Not fire.
Stone.
She blinked, disoriented. Low torchlight flickered from iron sconces. She was… in a servant's room?
The air smelled like soap, ink, and something musty. Her limbs trembled as she pushed the coarse blanket away and stood. Her knees felt wrong her body felt wrong.
She staggered to a cracked mirror in the corner.
The reflection staring back was not her own.
It was the face of a girl no older than eighteen hollow-cheeked, freckled, with dull brown hair and scared eyes.
"Elara…?" she whispered, touching her face. "No. No, this is…"
Thalia.
Her maid. The quiet girl who once brought her tea and polished her boots. Elara had barely known her. She had died early in the war.
But here she was in Thalia's skin.
A knock at the door.
"Elara, you're going to be late!" chirped a voice.
She turned slowly.
In the doorway stood a younger version of Lady Lysara so much younger, sixteen maybe, and smiling shyly.
But Lysara had been twenty-five at the time of Elara's death.
This wasn't a dream.
It wasn't even a memory.
It was the past.
Five years before the betrayal.
Before the war.
Before the pyre.
Her hands curled into fists.
She had been executed.
And now, she was back.
But this time… no one would see her coming.