The fire didn't care that Seranya Vale was innocent.
The flames licked her skin like old friends, peeling away everything — nobility, loyalty, name. All gone.
All for a crown that had used her, a prince who betrayed her, a kingdom that called her witch.
"May the gods have mercy on your soul," the priest said.
She laughed.
The executioner flinched. Too late. The pyre was lit.
Smoke clawed down her throat. Her lungs turned to knives.
She didn't scream. She smiled.
If she was going to hell, she'd drag every last one of them with her.
---
Then....darkness.
And breath.
---
She gasped, air flooding back into her chest like a curse reversed.
Silk sheets. A canopy bed. Her bed.
Not ashes. Not chains. Not.....
She was alive.
She sat up with a jolt, chest heaving, palms trembling. Her skin was unburned. Her nails were smooth.
She looked to the window. That tower. Those gardens.
The estate. My family's estate. Before the engagement. Before the trial. Before everything.
"No," she whispered. "No f*cking way."
A sharp pain flared on her collarbone.
She clawed open her nightgown...and saw it.
The Mark.
Black. Elegant. Twisted. Like something drawn in blood and spite.
It pulsed once. Like it was… laughing.
A contract sealed in hell.
And with it came the whisper. Low. Inhuman.
"You asked for power. I heard you burn."
"Now rise, villainess."