The sky was bloody that morning.
The rain fell in thin sheets of silver, slicing the air like the whisper of blades. The plains of Lysandria, once a symbol of royal splendor, were now drenched in mud, blood, and the scent of withered roses.
The crowd gathered like vultures. Jeweled nobles and tattered peasants stood side by side, united by their hunger for spectacle. In the center of it all stood a woman in torn silk with a shattered dignity: Duchess Seraphina von Arden.
Chains bound her wrists, but her posture was perfect.
Every step she took across the marble floor echoed authority, not surrender.
Even now, awaiting death, she refused to kneel.
"For the crime of treason against His Majesty and for conspiring with the enemy nation of Vareth…"
The trembling voice of the herald rang out through the storm. She could barely read the edict, her hands shaking as lightning forked across the sky.
Seraphina didn't hear him. She stared at the execution platform and then at the three men who had written her downfall.
Her husband, Lord Damian Arden, stood tall, his expression as blank as a carved stone. Beside him, Countess Elara Dauvrey, Seraphina's best friend who was with her in her moments of joy, wore an expression of subtle compassion that was the kind only a liar could perfect.
And behind them, smiling faintly, stood Crown Prince Alaric, the man who had once whispered devotion in her ear.
The sight almost made her laugh.
She had built it all. Their reputation, their influence, their rise in court, even their every move had been made possible because she, the perfect duchess, had stood behind them.
And now, they were here to erase it.
"This is mercy, Seraphina," Damian said, his voice too soft for the crowd to hear. "Your name will die with dignity. Accept that."
Her lips curled. "You never understood dignity. It was not given. It was kept even in destruction."
A flash of emotion crossed her face... clearly annoyance, perhaps guilt but it faded quickly.
The crowd chanted her name, turning into curses. "Traitor! Sorcerer! Murderer!"
Every word was a lie she had once believed could never be spoken about her.
She turned her head slightly towards Elara, her tone still light.
"Tell me, my friend," she murmured, "was it worth it?"
Elara's painted lips lifted into a cruel smile. "Totally."
For a moment, Seraphina just stared at him and then she laughed.
Not in hysteria, not in despair, but in quiet amusement.
It silenced the rain too.
"Then I suppose I should thank you," she said. "I am blind and you… you have opened my eyes."
The executioner stepped forward, his face hidden behind his hood.
The blade gleamed in the gray light, sharp enough to end a life and begin a legend.
"Do you have any last words, Your Grace?"
Seraphina lifted her chin. Her hair clung to her face, silver threads matted with raindrops. She looked like the fallen angel that people believed was so beautiful, cursed, unforgettable.
"Yes," she said softly. "I will see you all again."
The blade fell.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then came the cold, deathly silence…not pain, not fear, just silence.
But death was not the end.
---
At first, there was nothing. Then came a faint sound, like a whisper through the mist.
"Will you rewrite your story, Duchess?"
Seraphina's pulse pounded like a ghost's. Then another.
The darkness cracked, splitting into light.
And suddenly she breathed again.
Warm air filled her lungs. The scent of roses…fresh roses filled her senses.
Her eyes opened wide.
Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains of her bedroom. The silk sheets beneath her fingers were smooth, untouched by blood or ash. She sat up sharply, her heart pounding, her gaze sweeping the room.
Every detail was familiar, there was the porcelain mirror from her wedding gift, the gilded harp by the window, the faint ticking of her grandfather's clock.
This was her room on the Arden estate. But it couldn't be. The palace had claimed it after her death.
"No…" she whispered. "This can't be."
The door swung open. A young lady rushed in, her eyes wide.
"My Lady! My Lord is awake! The Duke's messenger has just arrived, he says Lord Damian will return from the front tonight!"
Seraphina was transfixed. That sentence. That exact sentence had once signaled the beginning of her destruction.
Her mind reeled.
The night Damian returned, she had believed him. He had introduced her to Elara again. She had believed every gentle word he had spoken.
And three years later, she had died because of him.
She rose slowly from the bed, every movement deliberate. Her trembling fingers touched her throat but there was no scar. No chain. Just smooth, living skin.
Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror.
The same soft face. The same gentle smile. The same gullible woman.
But behind her eyes now burned something new: revenge.
"Three years before my death…" she muttered.
"How kind fate."
She walked to the window, opening the curtains. The gardens were alive and blooming as they had been before everything had been shattered. The world had turned and she had been given the one thing that power could not buy: time.
Her maid was still chattering. "May I prepare your gown for tonight, ma'am? Countess Elara will be attending the banquet and…"
Seraphina's smile did not fade, but her tone was like a severed knife.
"No."
"Have the staff cancel the banquet. Tell the Countess that I am… unwell."
The maid blinked, startled. "Ma'am?"
"I have entertained too many snakes before breakfast," Seraphina said calmly. "I find I have lost my appetite."
As the maid hurried out, Seraphina sat down in her chaise longue and studied herself again.
Her mind replayed the voice whispering in the void.
Will you rewrite your story?
Yes. She would.
But not through anger.
Through patience. Through precision.
Every smile, every kindness, every whispered word, she would create her revenge not with fire, but with silk and steel.
Outside, the bells of Lysandria tolled noon.
Inside, a dead woman plotted the silent destruction of her empire.
Seraphina reached for her hairpin carved from moonstone, smooth yet sharp enough to draw blood. She twirled it between her fingers, her eyes sparkling.
"You destroyed me once," she whispered to the ghost of her past. "Now it's my turn to destroy beautifully."
Her laugh was soft and elegant, haunting, triumphant.
And somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled again.
The Duchess of Schemes had returned.