She blinked, disoriented, staring up at the white ceiling, designed with murals. It was oddly familiar—homely, even—cleaner than she remembered it being when she left for the Imperial Palace. This couldn't be right. The mansion had been deserted, steeped in dust and silence. Yet now, the faint murmur of maids, the distant clatter of busy servants, filled the air.
Her heart quickened. There hadn’t been life in this place for years. Could this be a trick of her mind? A lingering dream teasing her with memories long past? The vividness of it unsettled her, the sensation too real to be a mere echo of a forgotten life. She could almost feel the warmth of the voices, the pulse of energy coursing through the walls. But was it real?
Her breath caught. If it was, what had changed? And why was she seeing these? She had certainly died after that assault by him.
And for once, Hestia wanted to relish herself in this baseless speculation.
She jolted up from the soft mattress, her heart pounding. Without wasting a second, she rushed to the mirror, desperate to see her reflection. Her hands trembled as she touched the cool glass, her eyes widening in disbelief.
This wasn’t the worn, sickly face she had come to know. The pale, fragile complexion from the aftermath of her battle with Leonardo had vanished. Instead, a youthful, rosy face stared back—a face she hadn’t seen in years. Her blue eyes, once dulled by time and the harshness of the world, now gleamed with life. The softness of her cheeks, the chubbiness that had long since faded, returned, and her lips, now full and pouty, pressed lightly against the glass.
She wore a fluffy nightgown that covered her from neck to toe, a far cry from the battered gown she had been in during that brutal fight. Her nose brushed the mirror, and she stared at her reflection, pinching her cheek as if the pain would confirm whether this was real.
For ten long minutes, she studied every detail. This couldn't be possible. The brutal clash with Leonardo had left her lifeless and defeated, yet here she was, staring at a version of herself that had seemingly erased those memories.
Finally, she reached a conclusion—something had changed, something beyond the physical.
But why? And what did it mean?
She had returned sixteen years into the past, to when she was just eleven years old. Her initial shock quickly twisted into a smirk, and a glint of madness flickered in her eyes. With half-lidded focus, she assessed her situation, already plotting how to make this second chance count. Fame and revenge—both would bloom like sweet fruits for her to savour.
Since fate had given her this rare opportunity to destroy her nemesis, she vowed to use it to its fullest, letting nothing stand in her way.
Or so Hestia believed.
Like a fool charging ahead without a plan, she had failed to notice the signs: small, subtle things that pointed to an obvious truth she had overlooked.
Why? Why did I fail!?
Hestia’s gaze darted around, her breath quick and shallow. The stench of charred flesh hung thick in the air, suffocating her. Bodies, countless and mangled, lay strewn across the blood-soaked ground, their skin blistered and blackened from the flames. Some were twisted in agony, their faces frozen in the final moments of terror. Others were barely recognizable, reduced to smouldering piles of meat.
On her lap rested the severed head of Emperor Leonardo Karius Afanas, his eyes still wide with shock, his mouth twisted into a grotesque grimace. His neck—savagely slashed—gaped open, a jagged wound that leaked thick, dark blood, pooling in her lap. The metallic scent of it clung to her, sickeningly sweet. Her madness had craved this, had thirsted for his blood, and yet she hadn’t dared taste it, though now a part of her, deep and twisted, ached to do so.
Her eyes widened, staring at the carnage around her. Horror clawed at her insides, twisting her gut. She could almost hear the ghosts—the wails of the slaughtered—filling the air, accusing her. Their shadows pressed in on her, heavy, suffocating, draping her in guilt too immense to bear. She looked down at the Emperor’s lifeless, severed head, tears streaming from her eyes, splattering his cold, blood-smeared face.
Her tears weren’t of sorrow, but of terror; of the empty, hollow thing she had become. Yet, no matter how much she wept, the blood on her hands would not wash away.
Hestia’s hands trembled as she stared at the Emperor’s lifeless face. The tears that fell on his bloodied skin didn’t stir any regret in her, only a deeper, gnawing emptiness. It was as if the very essence of who she was had been stripped away, leaving behind nothing but a hollow shell, a void where her heart had once been. The madness that had driven her to this massacre had promised satisfaction—promised revenge would fill the void. But now, with blood on her hands and bodies at her feet, she felt nothing. No joy, no triumph. Only an unbearable weight pressing down on her chest.
How did it come to this? she thought, her mind reeling. The faces of the slain haunted her, their lifeless eyes burned into her memory. She wanted to scream, to rip her own skin off just to escape the suffocating guilt and horror that clawed at her from every corner of her mind.
She wanted to undo it all. To turn back time. She longed for the chance to take it back—to erase the bloodshed, to stop her hands from committing the unspeakable acts that now stained her soul. The desperate desire to reverse everything churned in her gut, but reality was cruel, and there was no going back. What was done was final. She had crossed a line, a point of no return.
And then, the voices began.
They whispered at first, soft tendrils of madness that curled around her thoughts, caressing them with seductive cruelty. You’re not done yet, Hestia. There’s more to be spilled. More to kill. Why stop here? Finish what you started.
Her breath hitched. The voices were everywhere—raging, clamouring inside her head, their demands growing louder and more insistent. Kill. Destroy. Burn them all. They laughed, a cacophony of insanity that pushed and pulled at her. She clutched her head, her fingers digging into her scalp, trying to silence the vicious chorus tearing through her mind.
I’m losing myself, she realised, panic rising in her throat. She could feel it; her sanity slipping away like sand through her fingers. The person she once was, the Hestia who had dreams, hopes, even kindness, was being swallowed whole by the monstrous, bloodthirsty creature that now controlled her. She was becoming someone else...something else. A madwoman, driven by a hunger for violence that would never be sated.
Her vision blurred as she looked down at Leonardo’s severed head again. The voices screamed louder, urging her to continue, to give in to the madness and end it all in a blaze of carnage.
But deep inside, buried beneath the darkness, a part of her still fought. No… no more. She clenched her fists, blood from her victims mixing with her own sweat. She was torn between the savage hunger gnawing at her and the desperate need to claw her way back to some semblance of humanity. She wanted to stop. She wanted to undo this madness.
But the shadows closed in, and the voices wouldn’t let her go. Her long nails scraped across his cheeks, raking over his face, each swipe eliciting thick streams of blood to ooze forth. The dead visage was ruined, unrecognisable, yet she felt no sense of satisfaction, only an insatiable hunger gnawing at her soul. A primal scream tore from her throat, echoing across the desolate field like a wail of despair. Hundreds of ravens took flight from their nests, responding to her beastly call, their dark wings blotting out the sky as if mourning the horror that had unfolded. Arius, Helen, her friends, her family—gone. The entire empire of Balthazar lay dead, a hollow echo of its former glory. And all of it was the doing of the mad witch Hestia. As she gazed at the chaos around her, a wave of madness washed over her, twisting her thoughts into a tangled mess of grief and fury. Each drop of blood, each lost life, weighed heavily on her heart, drowning her in melancholic despair. She had become the very monster she had vowed to destroy, and the reality of her actions gnawed at her, a constant reminder of the destruction she had wrought. In that moment, the world spun around her, a chaotic blend of beauty and horror, and all she could feel was the suffocating grip of madness closing in. She longed to correct the horrors she had unleashed, her heart ached with a deep, gnawing regret. The realisation struck her with brutal clarity: Leonardo wasn’t the true descendant. How could she have missed it? The moment she had slaughtered the Imperial family—her thoughts twisted back to that fateful day—she should have known. If they didn’t carry the bloodline, how could Leonardo be a descendant? It was a horrifying truth, a revelation that spiralled through her mind like a jagged knife. Each memory of that night clawed at her, raw and unrelenting. The way the once-vibrant halls of the palace had echoed with laughter, now turned into a haunting silence filled with the ghosts of her victims. The thought of their lifeless bodies, the blood pooling beneath them, filled her with a sickening sense of dread. What have I done?
Her throat tightened as she choked back a sob. The sanity and humanity that remained within her clung desperately to hope, praying to somehow endure this moment and wash away the overwhelming guilt that threatened to suffocate her. She could almost feel the weight of their stares, the accusation heavy in the air, each one a dagger driving deeper into her soul.
Yet amidst this torment, an imaginary version of herself emerged, a twisted reflection enriched with life, taunting her mercilessly. This spectre of her former self danced in the shadows, her laughter a chilling echo that sent shivers down Hestia’s spine. You could have been a hero, it whispered, its voice dripping with mockery. Instead, you’ve become a villain. How does it feel to wear the crown of madness?
Hestia's hands trembled at her sides, her nails biting into her palms as she fought to hold onto her fading sense of self. The taunting figure weaved in and out of her thoughts, coaxing her to embrace the darkness, to revel in the chaos she had created. The guilt wrapped around her like chains, tightening with every breath, making her chest feel heavy, as though it might collapse under the weight of her sins.
She sank to her knees, the cool ground grounding her in the moment, yet the chill did little to quell the storm inside her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and bitter, as she pressed her forehead against the cold earth. I wanted to save them, she thought, her heart shattering anew with each passing second. I wanted to protect my home, my people. But now, all she had done was deepen the wounds, tearing apart the very fabric of the world she had sought to defend.
Each sob echoed in the emptiness, mixing with the haunting whispers of her imaginary self. The laughter swirled around her, mingling with the memories of her friends and family—Arius, Helen, all gone, their faces flashing before her like a slideshow of regrets. They had trusted her, believed in her. And now, she had become the embodiment of their worst fears, a harbinger of death and despair.
With each heartbeat, the distance between who she was and who she had become stretched further, leaving her trapped in an endless cycle of sorrow and regret. She felt like a ghost in her own life, lost in a labyrinth of her own making, haunted by the echoes of her actions, and suffocated by the weight of her choices. In that moment, Hestia knew she was spiralling into
Then, just as the light enveloped her, a final image crystallised in her mind: the face of the obscured true descendant, heir to the notorious hexer, the one who could restore the empire, save her family lineage and heal the wounds she had inflicted. If only she could find them, perhaps there was still hope.
With that thought, she felt the world twist and turn around her, the anguish of her past receding into the distance. As she hurtled through time, the darkness faded, and for the first time, she glimpsed the possibility of redemption.
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