The fire didn't reach her skin before betrayal did.
Ashara opened her mouth to scream—but the voice that tore out wasn't hers.
It was the Empire's.
Wailing.
Burning.
Ending.
Her golden gown, once stitched with the sigils of the Twelve Houses, caught flame like dry parchment. She stumbled forward, iron chains clattering around her wrists. Somewhere behind the haze of incense and smoke, a crowd stood watching.
Not mourners.
Not loyalists.
Judges.
"By decree of the Crown and Council," a cold voice boomed, "Ashara Vel Siran, Empress Consort, is hereby condemned for treason, blasphemy, and forbidden arts."
High Minister Caelen stood tall at the base of the throne dais, clad in white robes threaded with gold. His face was void of pity. Only ceremony.
Ashara's knees buckled. The pain hadn't begun yet—but her mind was already cracking. Her eyes darted through the fog of incense and firelight.
He was there.
Prince Kallad. Her once-beloved husband.
Now a stone-faced stranger.
He did not speak.
He did not move.
He did not look at her.
"Until fire takes us both," he had once whispered, beneath a moonlit veil.
Well. Fire had come.
She smiled bitterly and closed her eyes.
Let them kill her.
Let the empire crumble.
Let this cursed throne devour them all.
But the fire never came.
Instead—Beep.
A strange sound echoed in the void.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ashara opened her eyes.
No flame. No chains.
Only pain. And blood.
She was lying in a familiar room—cold marble beneath her back, her ceremonial dress soaked red across the ribs. The royal execution chamber.
Her deathbed.
Only… she was breathing.
The great bronze doors slammed open.
"Y-Your Grace!" a voice squeaked.
A servant girl—barely fifteen, pale as parchment—rushed forward, eyes wide with terror and awe. "They said you were dead. We thought—"
Ashara sat up, eyes adjusting to the candlelight.
She looked at her hands.
Slender. Pale. Gloved in blood.
Not her hands.
No longer Elena Mera, graduate student, museum archivist, fire victim.
She was now Ashara Vel Siran, the woman history books called The Cursed Empress.
She clutched her chest, feeling the tear where the ceremonial blade had pierced her heart.
This isn't reincarnation. This is a reset.
A second chance.
A cruel one.
She had seven days until history would burn her alive—again.