Chapter 1: The End of the Story
Elaine Astoria had never been to a funeral where she was the only one crying—and not for the person in the coffin.
The velvet casket, carved with golden roses, sat at the center of the cathedral like the final full stop at the end of a dramatic novel. Because, well… it was.
She stood in the shadow of towering stained glass windows, the light painting her black dress in mourning rainbows. People around her wept elegantly. Some dabbed their eyes with lace handkerchiefs; others sighed with the theatrics of stage actors. But Elaine? Her tears were real. And confusing. Because they weren't for the dead prince lying with tragic grace—but for herself.
She had transmigrated into a novel—accidentally, she might add—and landed squarely at the end of it.
And not just any end. The final chapter. The hero? Dead. The villainess? Banished. The heroine? Heartbroken. The kingdom? Shaky but hopeful. And Elaine?
"Oh, you poor dear," an elderly duchess murmured with a sympathetic pat. "He spoke of you often, you know. So mysterious… so devoted."
Elaine blinked. "He did?"
'He really didn't.'
Not that she could explain. What no one knew was that she'd spent all her screen time trying to not get any. Avoid the heroine? Check. Duck behind pillars when the male lead entered a room? Double check. Pretend to be mute for three weeks to avoid delivering lines that might get her beheaded? Triple check.
Unfortunately, subtlety has its limits. Maybe it was the time she handed the prince a handkerchief after he'd dueled a traitor. Or when she nervously corrected his ceremonial sash and the court mistook it for a romantic gesture. Or that one moment she muttered a sarcastic remark too loudly and made him laugh—publicly. The ton, ever starving for drama, wove her into the story without her consent.
And now? The credits were rolling. She was supposed to fade into literary oblivion like every other side character. She'd hoped that meant waking up in her own bed, in her own world.
Except—time didn't roll credits.
It rolled backwards.
That night, after the funeral, Elaine awoke to find her room transformed. Gone were the gray tones of mourning; in their place, soft pastels and silks she vaguely remembered from a long-past festival. Her calendar read a date she recognized—wasn't this the week before the prince's coronation?
"What the hell?" she muttered, staring into the mirror. Her hair was longer. Her skin is brighter. Her eyes are less haunted.
Each morning, she woke up earlier in the story than the day before. Events un-happened. Breakups turned into hesitant glances. Betrayals became a blooming trust. The heroine lost her glow. The villainess began to smile without poison behind it. Even the war reversed itself like spilled ink soaking back into the pen.
And in the middle of it all… him.
Lior wasn't a prince. Not even a noble. Just the brooding Commander of the Shadow Guard with an affinity for sarcasm and an unhealthy relationship with knives. He was background noise in the novel—until Elaine realized he wasn't. Not really. Not when he was always there. Laughing when she tripped at the ball. Catching her when she fainted—what was it—pre-chapter ten?
She remembered how he teased her mercilessly for her historical faux pas.
"I'm not from around here," she had said in exasperation once.
"No kidding," he smirked. "You called the Crown Prince's sacred relic a 'funky flashlight.'"
Elaine had snorted. "In my defense, it was glowing. And humming. And vibrating."
He had looked at her like she was the strangest puzzle he'd ever wanted to solve. "You're not like the others."
"Because I'm technically not supposed to be here."
Maybe that was true. Maybe she'd never been meant to have a story at all. But as time peeled backward and Elaine stepped closer to the first page rather than the last, something strange bloomed in her chest.
Maybe this wasn't someone else's ending.
Maybe it was her beginning.