They say when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.
But right now, all I can see is the blade of the executioner’s sword gleaming under the sun.
The cold iron shackles dig into my wrists, their weight dragging my arms down as I kneel before the execution block. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. The air is thick with tension, the scent of damp stone and burning incense stinging my nose.
This is it.
This is how I die.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the roaring of the crowd gathered in the castle square. Nobles dressed in their finest silks watch from the balconies above, their expressions ranging from smug satisfaction to morbid curiosity. Some whisper behind lace-covered fans, while others openly sneer at my disgrace.
Traitor. Disgrace. Unworthy daughter.
I don’t need to turn around to know they’re waiting. Waiting for the sword to strike.
Waiting for my head to roll.
A lady of my status—a daughter of a Marquess, a noblewoman trained in etiquette, diplomacy, and governance—should face death with grace. With dignity.
But as I stare at the massive executioner standing beside me, his hands gripping a gleaming sword, my so-called noble composure shatters.
I don’t want to die.
Not like this.
Not because of her.
I lift my gaze to the royal balcony where they sit, watching like gods passing judgment. The Queen, draped in her jewels, her expression unreadable—but I know better. The Queen sits atop the highest balcony, her red-painted lips curling into a pleased smile. She never had a mind of her own, only listening to whoever whispered sweet nothings into her ear. And today, that whisper belonged to my dear, beloved half-sister.
Yvonne.
I lift my gaze to the balcony above, where she stands—the woman who orchestrated this entire downfall.
Her raven curls glisten under the midday sun, her delicate hands resting on the arm of my former fiancé. Crown Prince Lysander stands beside her, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.
She's adorned in soft silks and an innocent smile, the same smile that once comforted me as a child. But that’s the thing about Yvonne—she always looked the part. The perfect daughter, the perfect lady, the perfect fiancée to the Crown Prince.
I should have seen it coming.
I want to scoff.
Oh, I know that look.
It’s the same righteous, goody-two-shoes expression he always wears when pretending he’s above pettiness—but the way his fingers clench around the balcony railing tells me otherwise. He’s not watching my execution with indifference.
He’s furious.
Not because I’m dying—gods, no.
But because I didn’t beg.
Because I didn’t plead for my life.
His ego, his pride, demands I grovel. That I look up at him with tear-filled eyes, begging for his mercy, for him to take me back, to fix this mess.
But I won’t.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
The Queen, his mother, was never fond of me. I was nothing more than a political nuisance, a reminder that my late mother had been of higher status than she ever was.
She was once a mere consort, a duchess who clawed her way up to queenship after seducing the King—during his weakest years. But her title, no matter how grand, could never change the fact that she was not born for the crown.
That’s why she clings to Lysander, her firstborn son.
Her perfect, golden prince.
If he marries a high-ranking noblewoman—like my half-sister, Yvonne—then his claim to the throne will be secured.
And that is exactly why I had to die.
Because I was in the way.
Because I was betrothed to Lysander first.
Because if I lived, Yvonne would never become Queen.
The moment my father forced me into this engagement, the moment I became a pawn in his political game, my fate had been sealed. I was never meant to be the Crown Princess—I was just the placeholder until the right woman could take my place.
And now that she has it, there’s only one thing left to do.
Erase me.
Poisonous words spread like wildfire throughout the court. That I was power-hungry. That I had seduced the Crown Prince under false pretenses. That I had used forbidden magic to manipulate his heart.
At first, I laughed, dismissing them as nothing more than the petty gossip of jealous nobles.
But then… evidence appeared.
A letter.
One forged in my handwriting, pleading for assistance in assassinating the Crown Prince. They claimed it was addressed to an unknown mercenary—someone I had supposedly hired to kill the man I was meant to marry.
It was perfect.
A crime so heinous, so unthinkable, that even the Prince—the man who once swore to love me—did not hesitate to condemn me.
And my father?
That spineless coward did nothing.
I remember the moment clearly—the second my fate was sealed. The throne room had been filled with nobles, whispering among themselves, eyes sharp with judgment and anticipation. I had turned to my father, my last hope, expecting him to speak up, to defend his daughter.
Instead, he knelt before the Queen and begged for forgiveness—on Yvonne’s behalf.
“As her father, I take full responsibility for her crimes,” he had declared, his voice steady, as if he had rehearsed this moment countless times. “But I implore Your Majesty to spare my youngest daughter, Yvonne, from this disgrace. She is innocent in all of this.”
Yvonne stood behind him, her eyes glistening with well-practiced tears.
“My dear sister,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Why… why would you do this?”
I had screamed.
I had pleaded.
I had sworn on my life that the letter was false, that I was being framed—but no one listened.
My father was nowhere to be seen—too weak, too sickly, or perhaps too indifferent to witness his own daughter’s execution.
Even the Prince, the man I once thought would stand by me no matter what, turned his back on me. A lump rises in my throat as I shift my gaze toward the prince standing near the platform. My former fiancé. His golden hair gleams in the sunlight, his regal posture rigid with barely contained fury.
Not at the injustice of my execution, no.
At me.
At the insult of my survival up until this point.
The herald’s voice booms across the square, reciting my crimes for the crowd.
“Thalia Reinilda,” he had said, his tone void of emotion. “Lady Thalia of House Reinilda. Rightful daughter of Lord Zephyrion Edevane of Caerlyne, the Rose of Lysmere.” He paused for a moment. Then, with chilling finality, he spoke my sentence.
“You have been found guilty of treason against the Crown. By the order of Her Majesty, Queen Adrielle, you are sentenced to death by beheading. May the gods have mercy on your soul.”
Lies.
Every word is a lie.
My throat is dry.
The crowd before me murmurs in hushed voices, their faces a mix of curiosity and satisfaction. Some noblewomen pretend to be horrified, their gloved hands covering their lips, while others whisper behind lace-covered fans.
I know what they’re thinking.
How shameful. A lady of nobility, once betrothed to the Crown Prince, reduced to this.
This will be the last time I would see the palace—the last time I will see him.
Now, as the executioner steps forward, blade glinting under the sun, I finally understand.
Yvonne never wanted to be my sister.
She wanted to be me.
The executioner raises his weapon, his grip firm.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
And then—
A presence.
A heavy, suffocating aura spreads across the square, pressing against my chest. The murmurs of the crowd die down. An eerie silence follows, like the entire kingdom is holding its breath.
I open my eyes, my pulse quickening.
There—among the gathered nobles, standing just beyond the execution platform, is a man.
Dark clothing. Black armor.
He stands tall, his presence commanding, like a shadow cast by the gods themselves. His raven-black hair, long and untamed, shimmers subtly beneath the scorching sun, framing a face both regal and unyielding. His eyes—piercing and otherworldly—gleam like a celestial abyss, swirling with hues of deep sapphire and violet, as if the very cosmos are trapped within them. The sun’s golden rays kiss his skin, accentuating the sharp contours of his face and the hardened lines of his sturdy frame, yet nothing in his expression wavers. His gaze is fearless, unwavering—like a beast that knows no predator, only prey.
A presence so cold, so menacing, it sends shivers down my spine.
He watches.
Unmoving.
Uninterested.
As if he’s merely observing a spectacle.
Zagan Graventhorn.
The banished prince.
The rightful heir to the throne.
Unlike Lysander, Zagan was never meant to be cast aside. He was the firstborn son of the King, the one destined to rule. But his existence threatened too many powerful figures, and so he was exiled to the borderlands, forced to fight an unending war against the Celestians—monstrous, winged creatures that consume human life and power.
I never expected to see him here.
And yet, there he stands.
Not interfering. Not reacting.
Just watching.
He won’t save me.
Of course, he won’t.
Zagan is not Lysander. He does not play the role of a righteous, noble hero. He does not extend empty hands of mercy.
He has no interest in a dying woman.
My fingers curl against the wooden platform.
So be it.
I lift my chin. If I am to die, I will do it with my dignity intact.
I inhale sharply—
The sword comes down.
I close my eyes.
But instead of fear, rage burns in my veins.
I will not forgive them.
I will never forgive them.
And just as the blade comes down—
Darkness.
A sudden, suffocating silence.
And then—
And everything fades to black.
-------------------------------------
I wake up.
The day before my execution.
When I wake up, my throat is raw, my body sore as if I had been struck by a thousand stones. My pulse hammers against my ribs, and for a brief moment, I expect to feel the cold steel of the executioner’s blade pressing against my neck.
But there is no blade.
No crowd.
No blood.
Instead, I find myself in my bed—the very same bed I had slept in the night before my execution.
I sit up so fast that my vision blurs. This isn’t real. It can’t be. I was executed—I felt it. I had heard the sound of the sword slicing through the air. I had smelled the stench of the crowd, the sweat, the filth, the anticipation of my death.
But now, I am here. Alive.
And then it clicks.
The drapes are the same as I remember them—a soft lilac shade, embroidered with golden threads. My vanity table is still cluttered with my favorite perfumes, my hairbrushes, the delicate jewelry I once thought I would wear to my wedding.
This is my room.
From before.
The day before my execution.
My hands shake as I press them to my face. I can still remember everything—the trial, my father’s betrayal, Yvonne’s lies, the Prince’s cold, impassive gaze as he condemned me to die. The weight of the chains, the sneering laughter of the nobles, the feeling of my heart shattering into dust.
I can remember it all.
But this…
This is a chance.
A chance I should not have.
I shoot out of bed, ignoring the dizziness that threatens to pull me back down. I rush toward my vanity and snatch up the first mirror I can find.
There I am.
My face is exactly as I remember it. Pale skin, blue eyes, the faintest hints of exhaustion beneath them. My hair is a tangled mess, the long silver locks disheveled from restless sleep. But I am here.
I bite my lip, my breath ragged. What do I do?
The day before my execution. That means—Yvonne is already making her move.
I don’t have much time.
The letter.
The forged letter she planted in my chamber—it must still be here. If I can find it before she does… before the Queen and her spies get their hands on it, I can—
I freeze.
A knock at my door.
I know that knock.
Gentle. Hesitant.
And filled with false concern.
“Thalia?”
My fingers curl into a fist. Yvonne.
I should have known she would come first. Of course, she would. She needs to make sure everything is proceeding exactly as she planned.
I take a deep breath, smoothing my expression.
I cannot act rashly. If I burst out of this room and accuse her of treason, she will only turn it against me—paint me as unstable, hysterical.
No, I need to be smart.
I need to play along.
For now.
Carefully, I school my expression into one of mild confusion as I move to the door and unlock it.
When I open it, Yvonne stands there, draped in soft pink silks, her raven curls neatly pinned, her blue eyes wide with concern.
A perfect picture of a sweet, caring younger sister.
A mask I now know to be a lie.
“Yvonne.” My voice is steady, despite the rage boiling in my chest.
“Oh, thank the heavens! You’re awake.” She exhales a breath of relief, stepping forward as if she intends to embrace me. I hold my ground, and she stops, tilting her head in feigned confusion. “You look pale, sister. Are you feeling unwell?”
Liar.
You know exactly what’s going to happen to me.
I force a small smile, stepping aside to let her in. “I must have had a strange dream,” I murmur, rubbing my temples. “One that felt… far too real.”
She hums in sympathy, glancing around my room as if searching for something.
The letter.
She’s making sure it’s still where she planted it.
“Dreams can be strange like that,” she says softly, her fingers ghosting over my vanity table. “But you shouldn’t let them trouble you, dear sister. Today is an important day.”
Important.
Because by nightfall, I would be arrested.
I swallow my fury and sit down at my vanity, pretending to examine my reflection. “Is it?” I ask casually.
Yvonne beams. “Of course! You are to meet with the Prince later today, aren’t you?”
I meet her gaze through the mirror.
Ah. So that’s how it starts.
The day of my execution had begun with a summons from the Crown Prince. He had wanted to speak to me in private. That was where he first confronted me about the letter, where he revealed that he believed Yvonne’s lies over me.
And that was when he decided my fate.
I inhale sharply. I have to be careful.
I have been given this second chance—but I do not know why or how. All I know is that I cannot waste it.
I glance at Yvonne, watching as she continues pretending to be the perfect little sister.
She is so sure she has already won.
She thinks she has already taken everything from me.
She doesn’t realize that I have come back armed with knowledge I shouldn’t have.
I look at myself in the mirror again.
I was supposed to die.
But now, I have a chance to change everything.
And I will.
I smile at Yvonne sweetly.
“Thank you for checking in on me, dear sister,” I say. “You’re right. Today is an important day.”
More than you will ever know.
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