Pain was the last thing Elena remembered.
Not the sharp, sudden kind—but something deeper. A slow, creeping cold that crawled up her spine as the noose tightened around her throat. The world had gone silent as the crowd roared for her death. She remembered the betrayal. The faces she once trusted, twisted in delight as they watched her dangle from the platform like a criminal.
She wasn't one.She had only loved the wrong man.
The air left her lungs, and her vision swam in shadows. And then—nothing.
Until now.
Elena gasped, her eyes flying open. Cold air filled her lungs so abruptly that she choked. Her fingers dug into damp soil, and she coughed violently as she struggled to breathe. The scent of grass, rain, and iron filled her nostrils.
Where was she?
Her heart pounded. She sat up quickly and immediately regretted it—her head throbbed, and everything spun. But what shocked her most wasn't the pain.
It was the silence.
No gallows. No screams. No betrayal.
She was in a forest, dense and wet with morning dew. Mist clung to the trees like smoke. The wind was soft, almost reverent, like the world was holding its breath.
She looked down at herself.
Her body was different.
Her hands, once slender and marked by needlework and courtly polish, were calloused. Her nails were cracked. Her gown—if one could call it that—was roughspun and torn at the hem. Strapped to her hip was a blade. Not a ceremonial dagger. A real sword.
"What the hell…?"
The voice that left her lips was hers—and not. It was her tone, her cadence, but rougher. Older.
Had she… been reborn?
Elena's breath hitched. She remembered stories of transmigration—servants whispering forbidden tales around kitchen fires of women who returned after death, cast into other lives to seek revenge or redemption.
Could it be true?
And then came the sound of hoofbeats.
She turned toward it, heart leaping into her throat as a group of armored riders broke through the mist.
Men in black and silver. Their insignias—two crossed swords beneath a flame—seemed vaguely familiar, as if from a book she once studied in her youth.
The front rider, cloaked in black and riding a massive dark steed, raised his hand. The others halted at once.
He dismounted.
Elena took a step back instinctively. The man moved with the quiet precision of someone dangerous—someone who didn't need to raise his voice to command a room.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice low but cutting.
"Elena," she said, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. "Elena… Dorne."
His gaze sharpened. "Dorne? Of which house?"
"I—I don't know," she said truthfully. "I don't remember."
"You lie."
"I don't."
Before either could speak again, another soldier rode up beside the man. He bowed his head. "Your Majesty, the scouts report no others in the area. She's alone."
Elena blinked.
Your Majesty?
Her eyes widened slowly as the pieces clicked into place. The insignia. The sword. The chilling authority in his voice.
The crossed swords and flame—that's the royal crest of Dravencia…
The black cloak. The reputation. The silence.
Of course. The Sword King.
Lucien Valerius.
The name struck her like thunder.
She had heard it whispered with awe and fear in her past life. The man who rose from battlefield to throne. Ruthless. Calculating. Cold.
She was standing in front of him.
And he was staring at her like she was a riddle that refused to solve itself.
"You will come with us," Lucien said, turning his back to her.
"Why?" Elena demanded.
"Because you carry a blade forged for dead men. And because I don't believe in coincidences."
Two soldiers dismounted and moved to take her arms. She didn't resist—but her mind was already racing.
She had died once.
She wouldn't go quietly again.