The air was cold. Too cold for spring. While the spectators noticed the unseasonable chill in the air, Elira didn’t. Facing her death, the weather was the last thing she had time to worry about. In any case, if it snowed tomorrow, she wouldn’t see it anyway.

Elira Wyncrest knelt in the stone courtyard, the weight of iron shackles biting into her wrists. The sky above was an indifferent gray, the kind that swallowed sound. A crowd gathered—silent, waiting. The nobles sat high in their velvet-lined stands; gazes fixed on her as if she were there to perform a dance. She met their eyes. All of them. They didn’t even bother to look ashamed for how eager they were to kill her. Out of her family however, only her father held her gaze.

Her father, Duke Tharian Wyncrest, stood unwavering, his posture a testament to the unyielding traditions of their lineage. Clad in a ceremonial doublet of deep black, embroidered with silver threads forming the Wyncrest crest—a single rose entwined with a sword—he exuded an air of stoic authority. His violet eyes, a mirror of Elira's own, held no trace of sorrow, only the cold glint of duty fulfilled.​

Beside him, her mother, Lady Seraphina, was the epitome of composed grief. Her gown, a cascade of black silk, shimmered subtly under the overcast sky, each movement catching the light like the flicker of a dying flame. She dabbed at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief, the gesture more habitual than heartfelt, her gaze avoiding Elira's as if the very sight of her daughter was too burdensome to bear.​

Lucien stood with a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, poorly concealed by the solemn mask he wore. His attire, a tailored ensemble of charcoal and silver, was impeccably styled, reflecting his status as heir and his penchant for perfection. His eyes, sharp and calculating, met Elira's with a glint of amusement, as if he relished the spectacle before him, but shifted away quickly. Elira thought he was afraid of looking too long as it would break his control and give away his glee.

Vespera, sweet Vespera, wept openly, her tears carving silent paths down her cheeks. Dressed in a gown of mourning grey, she clutched a pendant at her throat, a token of their shared childhood, and allowed her pale blonde hair to fall helplessly from its ties. Her sobs were genuine, yet Elira couldn't shake the memory of the dagger's betrayal, the cold steel that had found its way between her ribs, guided by hands she once trusted.​ She couldn’t say for certain that Vespera was involved but how could she not be? She had never spoken out against her imprisonment or death. The only other choice was that Vespera truly believed her guilty and Elira couldn’t decide which hurt more.

As Elira's gaze swept over them, a maelstrom of emotions surged within her—betrayal, sorrow, and a hollow ache where familial love once resided. The faces before her were both familiar and foreign, masks of kinship hiding the fractures that had led to this moment. The weight of their judgment pressed upon her, yet amidst the despair, a flicker of resolve ignited, a silent vow that this would not be the end of her story. Someone, anyone, would eventually uncover her innocence and their deceit. She prayed that their end, with a flicker of hesitation on Vespera’s part, would not be swift or painless.

The High Inquisitor read the charges. Treason. Conspiracy. Endangerment of the Crown.

Elira heard none of it. Her heart was too loud—thundering in her ears like a war drum, drowning out every word with the deafening beat of disbelief. The cold stone beneath her knees bit into her skin, but it was a distant thing compared to the cold blooming in her chest. Her mouth was dry, her fingers numb, her breath too shallow to draw.

This isn’t real. It couldn’t be. Her eyes swept again for a friendly face. She hadn’t realized until this moment, that with all of her glances she had been searching for just that. A single friendly face. Someone, anyone, who looked at her with something tender. She would even take pity if that’s all they could muster.

Her father, the Duke, impassive. Her mother, eyes cool, unreadable and turned away. And Lucien—Lucien smiled. Just faintly. Just enough. Vespera still sobbed uncontrollably without looking. It hit her then. The final acceptance. The last straw of denial or disbelief snapping. This was real. and they were letting it happen. They planned it.

The weight of that betrayal crushed her more than the accusations ever could. Her chest tightened, her throat closing with it, but she would not cry—not here. Not for them. As the sentence was declared and the guards stepped forward, her body rebelled, cold sweat blooming across her back. Fear rose like a scream trapped in her ribs. Her vision narrowed but her spine stayed straight. They had taken everything. Her name, her freedom, her future. She would not give them her dignity. Not again.

You were everything they needed. Until you weren’t. A thought full of bitterness and resolve.

The executioner stepped forward. Elira Wyncrest lifted her chin. She would not give them fear. She would not scream. The last thing she saw was the rose crest carved onto the balcony above her as one of the four founding families. Then—darkness.

She woke up drowning in sunlight. The scent of rosewater. Warm linens. Soft silk brushing her cheek. Elira gasped, hands reaching for shackles that weren’t there. Her body jerked upright, heart hammering, throat raw.

No stone courtyard. No gallows. Only her room. Her bed. Her youth. She stumbled to the mirror. The face that stared back was not the woman who had died at twenty-two. It was a girl. Seventeen. Wide-eyed. Untouched by betrayal.

Well, not anymore. She thought as she stared at her reflection. She took in her pale skin, like moonlight on snow, stretched over high cheekbones. Her hair, once braided in stately crowns, now fell in soft, tousled waves the color of sunlit wheat. And her eyes—deep violet, her father’s unmistakable legacy—still shimmered with innocence, but beneath their surface, something darker stirred. A glimmer of memory. Of purpose. Of the woman she would become.

“No,” she whispered wishing the memories she had were just a dream. But the memory was vivid—too vivid to be a dream. She could still feel the cold iron, still hear the final silence. Her fingers found the pendant around her neck—a gift from Lucien. To my dearest sister the note had read when he presented it to her. She yanked it off and threw it across the room.

“Lady Elira?” A knock at the door. A maid. “The family is expecting you for breakfast.”

Breakfast. With the people who would murder her in five years. She straightened slowly. Her voice, when it came, was steady. “Tell them I’ll be down shortly.”

Elira stared at her reflection. She remembered the lies—the honeyed words, the soft smiles, the little tokens of affection meant to keep her blind. Gifts wrapped in ribbons, praise whispered just loud enough to be heard, warmth that felt like love. They had fed her affection like a dog at the table—just enough to keep her loyal. Just enough to make her believe she was loved.

And she had believed them. Every hollow compliment. Every carefully calculated gesture. She had taken it all into her heart like sunlight through stained glass, believing it to be love. She had smiled for them, fought for them, silenced her doubts for them. She had worn her devotion like armor, never suspecting it was the very thing they’d use to gut her.

She remembered begging for the truth in that damp, reeking cell. Her hands bloodied from struggling against her bonds, her knees aching on the cold, hard floor. Her voice had cracked with disbelief, with hope. She had asked why.

They had answered. Lucien, smirking as if it were a joke. Her father, voice heavy with indifference. It was you or us, they’d said. Someone had to take the fall. She had made it easy for them. So trusting. So eager to please.

She remembered the pain—not of death, but of that moment. Of realizing she had never truly belonged. That the love she thought protected her had always been a leash around her throat. Now she was here again. Alive, but not the same. Not soft. Not blind.

She could waste this miracle weeping—or she could sharpen it into a blade. Let them play their games. She would smile at her brother. Curtsy to her mother. Obey her father’s plans. For now. When the time came, they would never see the dagger until it was in their backs. She would play the perfect daughter all over again. The only difference was that she’ll be the perfect daughter that brings them ruin instead of escape.

The morning light slid through the heavy curtains, pooling across the floor in a pale, golden hush. Elira moved around her room selecting her outfit for the day, her bare feet pressed into the soft carpet lining the floor. It was a texture she had long overlooked but now greatly appreciated. Her hands moved automatically—lacing the stays of her gown, smoothing the fine fabric down over her waist—but her mind was a storm beneath the calm.

She chose a dress of soft cream with faint silver embroidery winding along the hems, subtle and graceful, yet expensive enough to remind the world she was a Wyncrest. The sleeves were long and fitted, the neckline modest, the kind of gown a dutiful daughter of a noble house would wear without complaint. A thin belt of pale blue satin cinched her waist, delicate but firm. She tied the final ribbon and went back to the mirror.

Before the mirror, she pinned her hair—sunlit wheat in color—into a neat twist, leaving a few gentle strands to frame her face. The girl staring back at her looked young, soft even, but her deep violet eyes gave the lie to that illusion. They were no longer the eyes of a girl. They belonged to someone who had died once already—and would not make the same mistake again.

A knock sounded at the door. A maid’s voice, uncertain and worried: “Lady Elira, breakfast is being served.”

Elira took a slow breath, letting the mask of innocence and duty settle over her features like a familiar cloak. Her hands smoothed down the front of her gown one final time. Let them see the daughter they expect, she thought, turning toward the door with a smile as hollow and sharp as a dagger’s edge. Pulling open the door, she gazed out on a maid who’s expression changed slowly from uncertainty and worry to confusion as the maid’s gaze swept along her tidy appearance.

“I thought we were in a hurry.” Elira stated when the maid didn’t move away from the door.

“Oh, yes. Yes, my lady.” The maid glanced down, cheeks flushing. “I apologize; I was waiting to help you get ready.”

Elira hesitated for half a breath, the weight of the moment slipping over her like a second skin. In her previous life, she would have waited—docile, passive—for a maid to brush her hair, tie her gown, fasten her shoes. A porcelain doll, moved and dressed and paraded about as expected. Yet this morning, she had risen, chosen, acted all on her own without even thinking of calling for assistance.

The realization brought a flicker of satisfaction—but also a ripple of caution. If she changed too quickly, too obviously, it would draw attention she could not afford. In a nest of vipers like her family, even the smallest hint of independence could be seen as a threat. She needed to tread carefully, hide the sharp edges until the time came to reveal them. She balanced on the edge between keeping her change from their eyes and the freedom she felt from something as simple as choosing her own attire for the day.

Elira offered the maid a soft, practiced smile, stepping past her into the hall. “Thank you, but I thought I’d attempt to manage by myself this morning,” she said lightly. “The selection process was fun but tomorrow I might call for assistance with the rest.”

The maid beamed back at her. “Of course, my lady.” She shuffled past Elira to lead the way to the dining hall. Elira smiled behind the maids back. She was sure the maid would run to her mother about this morning however she thought she played it well enough to convince them it was simply a teenaged whim. As she walked the halls she thought that this may actually be the best first step she could have chosen.