The pyre snapped beneath her feet.
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. This was theater.
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.
Off to the side, Caelan Vorenthal watched. The Warden General. Silent. Still. Masked. Alaric's greatest rival. He is supposed to be the enemy and she didn't know him well, but even through the smoke, she could see it.
He knew.
He knew this wasn't real.
Before fire, there had been warmth. A day that felt untouched by betrayal, still golden in her memory...
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, his voice smooth, amused. "I almost sent out the guards."
She smiled faintly, still watching the orchids. "Would've been a scandal."
He chuckled, then leaned down to press a kiss to her temple. It lingered just long enough.
"If you're hiding, it must be important," he said.
"It is."
He took her hand and sat beside her. Warmth radiated from him, steady and familiar. She let herself lean into it.
They stayed like that for a while. He fetched her tea, too sweet. Moved her chair so the sun touched her shoulders. Listened while she talked about lilies and soil pH and stubborn vines. He didn't understand any of it. But he listened. And 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 was curled on a divan, book in hand, blanket tucked neatly around her legs. Sunlight caught the copper in her hair.
"You look like you're keeping secrets," Evelyne teased, grinning.
Seraphina tilted her head. "Maybe I am."
"Do I need to worry?"
"Not yet."
They laughed, easy and unguarded. Evelyne linked arms with her like they used to as girls. The closeness felt comforting. Familiar.
"You've been quiet lately," Evelyne said. "Planning something?"
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just trying to enjoy what I have."
And she meant it. For the first time in a long time, she believed she was safe. Loved. Building something lasting.
But when Evelyne leaned in to adjust the hem of Seraphina's sleeve, her fingers tightened, just slightly. Seraphina almost didn't notice it.
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.
Six hours earlier.
The dawn came like a thief. One moment, she was reading in her solar, ink still wet 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 watched with hollow faces. One even smiled.
That was the moment Seraphina stopped hoping.
This wasn't justice. It was choreography.
They threw her in a stone cell beneath the court. No windows. No guards. Only shadows.
Then Evelyne arrived.
Alone.
"Please," Seraphina said, voice hoarse. "If you ever cared, if any of it was real, 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 and placed a hand on Seraphina's belly.
"You're not the only one carrying a future," Evelyne said. "But unlike yours, mine will survive."
The words sliced deeper than chains ever could.
Fake smiles. Lies between cousins. It was all an act.
Rage bloomed.
"Goodbye, cousin," Evelyne said, smiling like she'd already buried her.
And then they brought her to burn.
The executioner raised the torch.
Seraphina didn't beg.
She looked out at them, every coward, every traitor, every polished mask, and smiled.
Because she heard it. A voice in her head.
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 her skin before breath could become a scream. Her lungs filled with smoke. Her throat tore open with the raw sound of it. She felt her hair ignite. Flesh curled, blackened, cracked. Her wrists jerked against the chains as fire climbed her legs, peeled across her belly, wrapped around her ribs. Her knees buckled, but the bindings held her upright, forced her to burn conscious. Every nerve was a nerve no longer. Only fire remained.
And then, Nothing.
She woke.
Lilacs. Silks. Light.
Her first breath caught. Her body recoiled, expecting pain, fire, ash. But there was none. No smoke. No screams.
She sat up, slowly, breath shaking. Every nerve expected agony. But her skin was whole. The chains were gone.
Alive.
Her stomach was flat. Empty. A mercy.
She was back.
She stared into the mirror. Same face. Same hair. But her eyes,
They weren't empty. Not anymore.
For a flicker of a moment, she saw herself as they had: soft, obedient, perfectly carved into a duchess's mold. That girl had believed in alliances. In forgiveness. In love.
Now she saw the edges. The sharpness in her stare. The quiet promise behind it.
She saw what Evelyne feared.
And what Alaric would never understand until it was too late.
Her eyes remembered the fire.
They had burned her once.
This time, she would light the match.
She rose and crossed the room in three unsteady steps. The scent of lilacs was the same, but now it suffocated. Her gaze locked on the brass calendar beside the hearth.
The date hit her like a slap.
Months before the pyre. Before Alaric turned cold. Before Evelyne's smile became a knife.
Not just spared. Rewound.
A message carved in time.
She bolted from the bed. Her bare feet struck polished stone.
Her knees gave out. She dropped to the floor, palms pressed flat to the stone like she needed proof it was real. The morning sun warmed her skin. Her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from fury.
This was no second chance.
It was a warning.
She stood slowly, her breath uneven. The last time she'd lived this day, she had worn white to meet Alaric for breakfast. Smiled as Evelyne poured her tea. She had laughed, actually laughed, with people who were sharpening knives behind her back.
Never again.
She moved to the wardrobe and opened it, half-expecting soot to spill out or charred bones to line the floor. But everything was untouched. As if none of it had happened yet. Because it hadn't.
They still believed she was naive.
That she was breakable.
She could almost laugh.
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 first. One lie at a time. One mask at a time.
And when the court finally looked her in the eye again,
They would see the fire staring back.
And someone would burn for it.