The cold touched first. Not the kind that bit, but the kind that lingered. It pressed against her cheeks, filled her lungs, stung her fingers. Violet's eyes opened to the thin grey of morning, and for a moment she didn't know if she was still dying.
A soft creak, a familiar hum.
The smell of burned wood and lavender.
And then a voice.
"Still asleep? You'll catch cold, little one."
Maria's.
The blanket rustled as she turned her head. Her breath caught in her throat. The face that leaned over her was the same one she had seen torn apart, burned, buried in blood. But here—alive, unmarked, smiling with warmth that ached to look at.
"M… mama?"
Maria laughed softly. "You're shaking. You had that nightmare again, didn't you?"
Violet didn't answer. She reached out, touched her sleeve, the edge of her hair, her cheek. Warm. Solid. Real.
The scream that should have come out turned into a sob.
Maria froze, startled, then gathered her into her arms. "Oh, Littlebird…"
Her body trembled uncontrollably, as though her bones were remembering the pain before her mind could. The scent of ash, blood, and rot that had clung to her for months seemed to seep out of her tears.
"I saw you die," Violet whispered.
Maria blinked. "What are you talking about, sweetling?"
She couldn't answer. She just clung tighter, sobbing into her mother's chest.
Outside, the wind rattled against the shutters. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster cried. The world moved as though nothing had ever happened.
Days passed, and the rhythm of the house returned—at least for Maria and Garrett. For Violet, every sound was a threat. Every step too loud. Every shadow a blade.
At night she woke gasping, hand reaching for the phantom chains around her wrists.
In the morning she sat near the fire, eyes following the rise of smoke, counting the seconds until Maria called her name—just to make sure she was still there.
Garrett noticed.
"she's too quiet," he muttered one evening, sharpening his knife. "Ain't normal for her age."
Maria looked at Violet, who sat by the window tracing the frost on the glass with her finger. "She's been having nightmares. You know she is already in pain, do you think of anything."
"Nightmares don't make eyes that old," Garrett said. "I don't know, it's like they're deep enough to tell stories beyond fantasy."
That night, Violet lay awake long after the fire had dimmed. The memory of Velanor's blade flashed behind her eyelids—the cold that followed, the ringing silence, the weight of her own severed voice.
Why am I here again?
She didn't know. Maybe the world itself pitied her. Maybe it wanted to see her break twice.
But this time, she wouldn't be helpless.
On the seventh day, Garrett decided she needed "Would you help me?"
He put her a thick fur coat.
The forest stretched tall and old, the air heavy with the smell of wet bark and pine. Snow clung to the edges of the path. Birds scattered as they walked.
Garrett handed her a small bow—hand-carved, the same one he'd made for her years ago. The wood was polished smooth, the string taut.
"Still remember?" he asked.
Violet nodded, but her hands trembled as she took it. The bowstring's touch sent a shiver down her arm. The last time she'd held one, she'd used it to kill.
They tracked quietly for an hour before Garrett stopped. Ahead, a small stag grazed in a clearing, its antlers silvered by frost.
"Try," he said.
Her pulse spiked.
She drew the arrow, but her vision blurred. Every breath came with the echo of screams, the smell of burning flesh, the sound of laughter above her pain.
The arrow slipped from her fingers.
Garrett sighed. "You've got to harden your heart. Out there, no one's going to spare you because you're kind."
Her jaw clenched. "I know."
He turned to her, eyes sharp. "Do you?"
She looked up at him—at the man she had seen die protecting her—and nodded.
She took another arrow.
The stag raised its head.
She pulled the string, her arm steady.
This time, she didn't think.
The arrow flew clean and silent.
It hit. The stag stumbled, then fell, its body twitching in the snow. The sound of its breath dying was soft, almost gentle.
Garrett's hand landed on her shoulder. "That's how you live."
Violet stared at the blood blooming across the snow. For a long time she didn't move. Then she whispered, "That's also how you die."
He didn't hear.
But something inside her shifted.
She understood now. Survival was not about mercy or faith. It was about choice.
She had been prey once. She would not be again.
As they dragged the stag home, she caught her reflection in the ice of a frozen puddle—her small body, her pale face, eyes too dark for her age. For a heartbeat, she saw the other her—the one who'd died on the scaffold, head bowed before the blade.
Not again.
Never again.
Weeks passed. The pain in her chest began to fade, but only because it turned into something sharper—something focused.
At night, she replayed the memories she could still bear to remember: Calla's voice, Velanor's smile, the crowd's cheers. She whispered their names like curses under her breath until her throat ached.
She didn't know if this was what madness felt like or if it was simply remembering too much.
Then that dusk came, as she sat on the porch sharpening the small dagger Garrett had given her, a faint bell rang from the path.
Maria opened the door, wiping her hands.
Violet froze.
She knew that sound. That rhythm.
The steps that followed were light, measured, almost musical.
Calla stood at the gate.
Her cloak was white. Her smile perfect. Her voice the same as it had been before everything fell apart.
"Maria," she said warmly. "It's been too long."
Maria blinked, surprised, then called out, "Garrett!"
But Violet couldn't move. The world around her blurred. The firelight flickered in her mind—the voice, the hand, the slap.
Calla's gaze drifted, and their eyes met.
For a second, everything inside Violet stopped.
She remembered the cell, the chains, the laughter, the slap that split her lip open, the way Calla had poured water into her mouth as if feeding an animal.
Her hands trembled, but she forced a smile—the same weak, innocent smile she'd worn as a child.
"mother," she whispered.
Calla smiled back, soft and kind
My poor bird," Calla said, she looked at Violet and she picked her up, "Does your chest still ache? I told you not to strain yourself. Why don't you ever listen?"
Violet looked at Calla intently, she was confused but she didn't want her to be sad. "I was only watching, Mother."
Calla's tone was just like before soft but edged with warning.
"Yearning after what you can't have will only make your health worse. Then what will happen to me?
What will the people say? a mother who couldn't even keep her child alive?"
The words were smooth, polite—but beneath them, Violet heard the ghost of the voice that had once said Who the fuck are you calling mother?
Her fingers dug into her palm until she felt the skin break.
You'll smile now, she told herself. You'll pretend. Because this time, you're the one who remembers.
Violet forced her trembling lips into a small, sweet smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Inside her chest, the cold began to rise again—not the cold of fear, but the cold of resolve.
This was the moment her second life began.
And she would not waste it.