The roar of the crowd hit me like a wall the moment the dungeon doors opened.
"Traitor!""Burn her alive!""Make her scream!"
Dozens—no, hundreds—of voices crashed together in a violent tide, their hatred so raw it seemed to shake the ground. My body flinched at every word, my instincts screaming at me to run, to hide, to disappear. But I couldn't. Iron shackles bit into my wrists, the guards' hands gripping my arms like vices.
The world beyond the dungeon was a nightmare. The execution square stretched wide, packed with people pressing shoulder to shoulder, their faces twisted in anger. Torches flickered in their hands, casting wild shadows across the cobblestones. A wooden platform stood in the center, rough-hewn and stained dark—too dark. I didn't want to think about what that stain was.
My throat tightened. My legs felt weak, but the guards forced me forward. Each step echoed like a drumbeat of doom.
I wanted to scream that it wasn't me—that I wasn't Lysandra, that I hadn't stolen anything, that I was just some guy from another world who got dragged into a story. But what good would it do? To them, I was Lysandra. Nothing I said would change that.
The crowd's jeers grew sharper as I climbed the steps to the platform. I could see their eyes now—hungry, merciless. They didn't want justice. They wanted blood.
The executioner stood waiting. He was a mountain of a man, his face hidden beneath a black hood. In his hands rested a massive axe, its blade glinting under the torchlight.
My stomach lurched. My knees buckled. For a moment, I thought I might collapse then and there.
"On your knees," one guard barked, shoving me forward.
I stumbled, falling hard against the wooden platform. Splinters bit into my palms as my hair fell into my face. The world tilted, swam. My breath came in shallow, panicked gasps.
This was it. This was the end.
The executioner raised his axe. The crowd roared in anticipation, their voices blending into a deafening storm.
My mind raced, fragments of thoughts crashing into each other. This can't be real. I was just reading. I was in my room. I didn't do anything wrong. I can't die here. I can't—
Then, beneath the chaos, a memory flickered. The way Lysandra had been described in the novel—fierce, unyielding, defiant. She hadn't bowed her head even at the edge of death. She wasn't a coward. She wasn't weak.
And now, I was her.
My body shook. Fear clawed at me. But somewhere deep inside, a spark caught fire.
I lifted my head.
The crowd's jeers seemed to falter for a heartbeat as I met their eyes—not with tears, but with something else. Something harder.
"I'm not afraid of you," I whispered. My voice was hoarse, barely audible, but the words were real. For the first time, I believed them.
The executioner shifted his grip on the axe. His muscles tensed. The blade began to rise.
And then—
"Stop!"
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
The executioner froze. The guards stiffened. Even the crowd's roar dulled into a confused murmur.
From the far side of the square, a man strode forward. His clothes marked him as someone of power—a noble or politician, his robe embroidered with gold, his stride confident and sharp. His eyes glimmered with amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse.
"That girl is not to be executed today," he declared, his voice carrying across the square. "By order of the High Council, her sentence is postponed."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Anger flared, but no one dared to challenge the command.
The guards pulled me roughly to my feet, their grips bruising my arms. My heart still raced, my body trembling, but I forced myself to stand tall.
The noble's gaze swept over me, and for a terrifying moment, our eyes met. A smile curved his lips—cold, calculating, predatory.
"She has… other uses," he said smoothly.
The crowd erupted again, but this time their fury was ignored. The guards dragged me back down the steps, back toward the dungeon, back into the shadows.
My knees nearly gave out with every step, but I kept my head up. My breath came in sharp bursts, my body still shaking, but I wasn't dead. Not yet.
When the heavy door slammed shut behind me and the roar of the crowd was cut off, silence pressed in. My chest rose and fell, my heart hammering, sweat running cold down my back.
I collapsed against the damp stone wall of my cell, chains clattering as I slid to the ground. My body felt hollow, like I'd already died once and was clawing my way back.
But I was alive.
I was alive.
I closed my eyes, drawing in ragged breaths, clinging to the one truth that mattered.
"I survived," I whispered to the darkness.
But questions gnawed at me. Why had the noble stopped the execution? What "uses" did he mean? And more importantly… how was I supposed to keep surviving in this world when everything was stacked against me?
I didn't know.
But I knew one thing: I couldn't afford to give up.
Not now.Not ever.
The cell was colder than I had imagined, though not just in temperature. The chill went deeper, biting into my bones, settling in my chest and gnawing at my thoughts. Silence surrounded me, oppressive and suffocating, broken only by the occasional shuffle of the guards outside. My wrists still burned from the iron shackles, and each movement reminded me that I wasn't Arjun anymore—I was Lysandra, the girl who had been sentenced to die, who had no allies and no time to prepare.
I sank to the floor, leaning against the damp stone wall. My head lolled against it, hair falling into my face. My breaths were shallow, my chest tight. Everything from my old life—the office, my apartment, the comfort of anonymity—felt like it had been erased, replaced by a world that demanded survival or death, and possibly both.
My mind raced. I have to survive. But how? How do I escape a place like this?