The flames were a thousand voices, screaming her name as they swallowed her whole.
"Seraphina Ashvale!" the high priest declared. "You are hereby sentenced to death for crimes against the crown, the realm, and the gods!"
Crimes? She almost laughed.
Her crime was trusting them.
Bound in chains, her once-snow white gown now soaked with blood and dirt, Queen Seraphina stood tall even as the fire licked the edge of her dress. Her silver hair shimmered like moonlight—defiant, regal, unbroken.
The crowd cheered her execution. She recognized many faces—ministers she'd fed, knights she'd knighted, even the girl who once called her "sister."
And there he stood, her husband—the king she had bled for. Cold. Silent. His eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, she saw something that shattered her soul.
Relief.
The flames roared to life.
Pain exploded through her body, but she made no sound. Queens do not beg. Queens do not scream.
And yet, as the fire consumed her flesh, something ancient and furious awoke inside her soul.
> "This is not your end. Rise."
---
She gasped.
Cold air rushed into her lungs. No fire. No chains. No pain.
Just… soft sheets.
Seraphina sat up, trembling. Her eyes darted around—velvet curtains, moonlight pouring through a stained glass window, the soft tick of a silver clock.
She knew this room. The velvet curtains. The scent of lavender. The carved mirror—
"This is my room. From… seventeen years ago."
Her heart pounded. She rushed to the mirror.
A teenage girl stared back—young, wide-eyed, untouched by war or betrayal. But Seraphina knew those eyes. Knew the fire behind them.
She touched her chest.
No burn marks. No scars.
"I'm… alive?" Her voice cracked. "I'm seventeen again?"
Suddenly, memories flooded her mind—of everything she would do, everyone she would love, and every blade that would pierce her back.
Tears welled up—not from fear.
From rage.
"This time," she whispered, lips curling into a cold smile, "I will not be the one burned."