They say every princess begins her story one of three ways: born beneath a blessed star, found in a cradle woven of moonlight, or kissed by the gods and left in a rose garden to be discovered by fate.

I, however, began mine face-first in a pool of someone else’s blood. And if we’re being honest— that wasn’t even the first time.

In my last life, I was a killer. Not for pity. Not for shock value. Just fact. I sharpened my mind on bone, carved my legacy into flesh, and signed my name in screams. There are no headstones bearing my initials, but if you dig deep enough under the floorboards of Black Hollow Prison, you’ll find a story written in pieces. And every word of it is mine.

I was a writer too. Strange how writing and killing go hand in hand—both require precision, patience, an eye for anatomy, and a taste for metaphor. Solitary confinement gave me the time. So I built a world. A kingdom drenched in cruelty, crowned with flame. A tyrant on a throne of ash. Two sons sharpened by war. Violence, fear, tragedy—I gave them everything. Everything except me.

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

Yet when the poison finally claimed me, when my veins burned empty and my lungs gave their last, I expected silence. Blackness. Nothing. What I got instead… was a cry. My own. Small. Fragile. Reborn in silk and blood, cradled in the arms of a dying woman whispering, Please, be better than them.

Now I am Selene Vetras. Daughter of the Red Emperor. Sister to two monsters with crowns for smiles. The empire’s youngest princess. And still… a killer. Only this time, my bed is made of feathers, my cradle lined in gold, and my family cuts deeper than any knife I’ve ever held.

They say I don’t cry. They say I don’t smile. They say I’m strange. But in this kingdom, strange things live the longest. I’ve learned how to bleed beautifully, how to dress cruelty in lace, and how to play tag where the loser leaves with scars.

So write this down. Etch it in marble if you must. This is the story of how a dead man became a girl with a throne in her eyes—and how that girl learned to love the monsters who taught her to kill.

Fairy tales begin in flowers. Mine begins in rot.