The pyre crackled beneath Seraphina's feet, each snap of burning wood like breaking bones.

Seraphina D'Lorien stood chained, a Duchess stripped of her name, her breath stolen by smoke and betrayal. Around her, the nobles who once kissed her hand now stared through her like glass. The banners of House D'Lorien hung limp behind her, burned, torn, forgotten. The fire was already licking the edge of the wood. Her white gown clung to her skin, soaked in soot and shame.

And at the front of it all stood Alaric Vessant.

Her husband.

His crimson cloak fluttered slightly in the rising heat. He wore that same polished expression, the one she had once mistaken for tenderness. Beside him stood Evelyne Malenthra, feigning grief. Seraphina caught it, the flicker of satisfaction in her cousin's eyes.

This wasn't justice. It was a performance, scripted, rehearsed, cruelly perfect.

The Royal Justiciar's voice rang out: "Seraphina D'Lorien, for treason, forbidden sorcery, and betrayal, you are sentenced to death by flame."

The crowd didn't gasp. No one screamed. Just silence. As if they'd all rehearsed this.

Through the haze, her eyes found Caelan Vorenthal. The Warden General. Silent. Still. Masked. Alaric's greatest rival. A man she barely knew, and yet,

He knew. He knew this wasn't real.

Their eyes met across the flames. A moment stretched. A half-step forward. He stopped himself.

One man against a court full of traitors. He couldn’t save her. But he wanted to.

And that mattered more than she'd expected.

Through the smoke, Seraphina’s gaze locked on Caelan’s... and memory pulled her under.

-----

The day Seraphina D’Lorien learned she was pregnant, she didn’t cry.

She didn’t laugh, either. She just sat with it.

The greenhouse wrapped around her like a lullaby, warm air, blooming lilies, damp soil. Sunlight spilled through stained-glass panels above, casting jewel-toned light across the petals and stone. This was her sanctuary. A secret the court had no interest in.

She sat near the fountain, back straight, hands still in her lap. The midwife’s words echoed: no complications. Everything looked good.

It was real.

Her fingers trembled, not from fear, but the enormity of what now lived inside her. Motherhood had always been a distant expectation, a whispered duty behind fans and formal gowns. But now it was here. Alive. Her child.

And for one perfect moment, she let herself believe this would change everything.

Gravel crunched behind her.

She didn’t turn. She knew the sound.

"You missed breakfast," Alaric said, voice light. "I was five minutes away from declaring a manhunt."

She smiled, still watching the orchids. "All that fuss over tea and toast?"

He chuckled and leaned down, brushing a kiss to her temple. It lingered.

"You don't usually disappear unless you're brooding."

"Maybe I am."

"Anything I should know about?"

She looked at him, just briefly. "Not yet."

He took her hand and sat beside her. Warm. Familiar. She leaned into it.

He fetched her tea, too sweet. Moved her chair into the sunlight. Listened to her ramble about lilies and pH levels. He didn’t understand a word. But he smiled like she was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And she let herself believe it was real.

Later, she found Evelyne in the sunroom. Her cousin lay curled on a divan, book in hand, sunlight catching the copper in her hair.

"You look like you’re keeping secrets," Evelyne teased.

"Maybe I am."

"Do I need to worry?"

"Not yet."

They laughed. Easy. Familiar. Evelyne linked arms with her like they were girls again.

"You’ve been quiet lately," Evelyne said. "Planning something?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to enjoy what I have."

But when Evelyne adjusted Seraphina’s sleeve, her fingers tightened, just slightly.

Seraphina almost didn’t notice.

Almost.

The moment passed. The tea grew cold. The sunlight faded.

Seraphina spent the rest of the day in gentle peace, the secret still nestled close. She didn’t speak it aloud. Not yet. It felt too sacred. Too fragile.

And in that rare stillness, she believed in Alaric. She believed in Evelyne.

She believed in the child growing inside her.

What she didn’t know, what she couldn’t know, was that this would be the last secret she ever kept.

And the first one they would destroy.

-----

Back to the present, six hours before the pyre.

Dawn came like a thief. One moment she was reading in her solar, ink still drying on parchment. The next, steel-clad guards burst through the doors with a decree sealed in blood-red wax. Alaric’s decree.

They didn’t speak. Just seized her. Bound her like a criminal. Dragged her through the east wing, boots echoing like war drums. Servants stared with hollow faces. One even smiled.

That was the moment Seraphina stopped hoping.

This wasn’t justice. It didn’t even feel real. The guards moved like actors hitting their marks, every step too precise, too rehearsed.

They threw her in a stone cell beneath the court. No windows. No guards. Only shadows.

Then Evelyne arrived.

Alone.

"Please," Seraphina rasped, eyes wide with disbelief. "I don't understand, why am i here? What is happening? If you ever cared, if any of it was real... please. Help me. If not for me, then for the child I carry."

Evelyne tilted her head. Then smiled.

"You still don’t get it," she whispered. "You were never meant to win."

She stepped forward, placed a hand on Seraphina’s belly.

"You’re not the only one carrying a future," Evelyne said. "But unlike yours, mine is Alaric's true heir and will survive."

The words sliced deeper than chains ever could. She was speechless.

Rage bloomed.

"Goodbye, cousin," Evelyne said with a soft laugh, her voice laced with mockery. "It’s a shame you always thought this was your story."

And then they brought her to burn.

The executioner raised the torch.

Seraphina didn’t beg.

She looked at every coward, every traitor, every painted face, and smiled.

Because she heard it. Her mother’s voice.

"By blood unbroken, by flame unquenched, Let the wheel turn, let fate be wrenched. Undo the hour, reclaim the flame, Let the ash bear my true name."

The torch dropped.

Flames surged.

Heat swallowed her in a wave of agony, blistering skin before breath became scream. Smoke filled her lungs. Her throat tore open. Hair ignited. Flesh cracked, blackened. Chains held her upright as fire climbed her legs, peeled across her belly, wrapped her ribs.

She burned alive.

And then, nothing.

-----

She woke.

Lilacs. Silks. Light.

Her breath caught. Her body flinched, bracing for pain. But there was none.

She sat up slowly. Her skin, whole. Her chains, gone.

She lives.

On her inner wrist, just beneath the skin, something faint glowed, like a mark burned in reverse. It shimmered once, then vanished before she could focus on it.

She blinked. Gone. No scar. No explanation. Only the sinking certainty that whatever brought her back hadn't finished with her.

She looked down. Flat belly. The child, gone.

A mercy. Or a price.

She was back.

She stared into the mirror. Same face. Same hair. But her eyes,

Not empty.

Not anymore.

She saw what Evelyne feared. What Alaric would never understand.

Her eyes remembered the fire.

She lifted her hand, uncertain, and fire flickered above her palm. Real. Untouched by fuel. Unafraid.

It felt... right.

Not just flame. Something deeper, coiled in her blood. Unnamed. Unexplained. Awakened by death. It waited, quiet and burning, for her to understand it.

She didn’t have answers. Just certainty. This was no accident.

Now it obeyed her.

She closed her fist. The flame vanished. But the heat stayed, pulsing beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.

They had burned her once.

This time, she would light the match.

She rose. The scent of lilacs pressed in too sweet, too thick. Her eyes locked on the brass calendar.

The date hit like a slap.

Months before the pyre. Before betrayal. Before Evelyne’s smile turned to a knife.

Not spared. Rewound.

A warning.

She dropped to her knees, palms pressed to stone.

This wasn’t mercy.

It was a reckoning.

She stood. Shaking.

Last time, she’d worn white to breakfast. Smiled at Evelyne. Laughed with those already holding knives.

Never again.

She opened her wardrobe. No soot. No bones. Just untouched silk.

Because it hadn’t happened.

Yet.

They still thought she was naive.

Breakable.

She almost laughed.

This time, she wouldn’t wait for justice.

She would make it.

Not with swords. Not with mercy.

She would take back her name in silence.

One lie at a time.

One mask at a time.

And when the court looked her in the eye again,

They’d see the fire staring back.

And someone would burn for it.