The garden was wrong.
Not visibly. Not obviously. The silver fountains still shimmered under the sun. The marble benches stood exactly where she remembered. The roses bloomed in delicate precision.
But Seraphina felt it.
A tension under her skin.
As if the air itself remembered what had happened here.
And hated her for coming back.
"I bled for this empire.
And all I got was fire."
She walked slowly along the cobblestone path, her emerald cloak trailing behind her. Servants bowed as she passed. Their smiles were tight. Their eyes lingered a second too long.
It hadn't started yet—this war she remembered—but the pieces were already in motion.
Then she saw him.
Caius.
Standing beneath the arch of roses, arms crossed behind his back, sunlight glowing against his golden hair. His white uniform was flawless, of course. His posture noble. Everything about him… maddeningly perfect.
Except one thing.
As she approached, her gaze sharpened.
There. Just under his right eye.
A faint scar.
Barely visible. But it hadn't been there yet. Not in this moment of the past.
That scar came later.
After the betrayal.
After me.
She stopped a few steps away.
Caius turned. And smiled.
"Lady Seraphina. You came."
His voice was exactly as she remembered. Calm. Warm. Sincere.
Deceptively sincere.
She tilted her head. "Of course. I'm not in the habit of disobeying royal invitations."
His smile widened. "You look… different."
"Do I?"
"Yes," he said. "Older. Not in years. In your eyes."
She froze. Just for a moment. Enough for him to notice.
So he sees it too.
Something is wrong with time.
Or maybe she wasn't the only one reborn.
He stepped forward, slowly, as if approaching a frightened bird.
"I brought you something," he said, holding out a single white rose. "You used to love these."
Seraphina didn't take it.
Her fingers twitched—something pulsed beneath her skin. A flicker. A whisper. Her blood stirred.
Magic.
Not hers, not yet. But waiting. Responding. It had followed her into this life, and it was waking up.
She looked at the rose… and then at him.
He doesn't know who I am.
But what if he remembers, too?
That scar. That smile. That look in his eyes.
She reached for the flower—then crushed it between her fingers.
Caius blinked. His smile faltered. Just slightly.
"I don't need reminders of what I used to love," she said. "Especially when I know how it ends."
Silence stretched between them. Long and sharp.
Finally, he asked softly, "Do I do something wrong in the future?"
She stared at him.
And for just one breath, one heartbeat, she saw it—the same man who had once knelt before her, dying, and whispered "I believe in you" with his final breath.
This boy would one day bleed for her.
And she would let him.
"No," she said, turning away. "You don't do anything wrong."
She paused.
"But you die anyway."
She left him standing there, alone in the sun, the crushed petals falling from her hand like ash.