"Let's begin again."
The words hung in the air, foreign in her own voice.
Evelyne didn't move. Not at first.
The room was wrong.
No jeering crowd, no scent of sweat and iron, no headsman's axe slicing the sky. Only lilac, faint and cloying. Morning light spilled in soft pools across polished floors. The heavy velvet curtains stirred, whispering against the windowpanes like old ghosts.
She lifted a hand — no rope burned her wrists. Smooth, pale skin. No blood, no filth.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, a living drumbeat, chasing the echo of a blade that had never fallen.
Am I dead?
A wild, absurd thought. Was this the afterlife? Some cruel imitation of her old world before damnation claimed her soul?
But no. The weight of her body, the ache in her throat, the taste of sleep still clinging to her tongue — all too sharp, too present.
And the mirror.By the gods, the mirror.
Evelyne's gaze locked on the reflection opposite the bed. Her face — untouched, young, no dark circles beneath her eyes, no hollow gauntness of the condemned. Her hair fell in sleek, unbound waves over her shoulders, untouched by the blade's cold kiss.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood too fast. A rush of vertigo spun the world on its axis, and she caught the edge of the carved vanity.
Think, damn you.
The engagement ball. The day it all began. The room — her old chambers in Draymoor Manor. The paintings, the ivory brush on the dresser, the ruby hairpin she'd lost years ago still gleaming in its case.
"Impossible…" she murmured, but the word felt weak against the crushing certainty.
This wasn't death.
This was return.
Somehow, impossibly, she was before it all. Before Aldric's betrayal. Before Seraphina's rise. Before the blood, the noose, the axe.
And the voice in her head, the one forged in the fire of betrayal, whispered:
Then fix it. Break them. Crush them. No mercy this time.
A knock at the door shattered the stillness.
"My lady?" a voice — soft, uncertain. Evelyne recognized it. Mari, her old maid. The one Aldric's men had strangled in the garden after using her as bait. Her heart didn't twist at the memory — it burned.
"My lady, you'll be late for the ball preparations."
The ball. Of course.
Evelyne's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
The engagement ball where Prince Aldric would announce his intention to marry her. Where Seraphina would make her first 'humble' appearance. Where the foundations of her ruin would be quietly, elegantly laid.
Not this time.
"Enter," Evelyne said, her voice silk-wrapped steel.
Mari slipped in, curtsying. "You slept late, my lady. Should I prepare your—"
"Fetch me ink, parchment, and send word to Captain Varrin. Discreetly."
Mari blinked. "Captain Varrin, my lady? But the old captain retired months—"
"Do it."
Something in her tone made the girl blanch, nodding rapidly as she fled the room.
Evelyne turned back to the mirror. The face staring back at her wasn't that of a desperate, doomed woman.
It was a blade newly sharpened.
"You took everything from me once, Aldric. Seraphina. Now, it's my turn."
And the storm had already begun to gather.
The room had a weight to it now. Not from the furniture, nor the ancient stone walls of Draymoor Manor — but from the memories crashing down like a merciless tide.
They didn't arrive in fragments.
They came as a flood.
Lord Caldrin's panicked face at the trial. Mirelle's voice, hoarse with grief, begging her to flee before the guards came. Damon's bloodied hands on the barracks floor. The cold weight of Aldric's ring flung into her cell.
The scent of scorched parchment.
The clatter of a dagger slipping from her trembling grip.
The way the rope bit into her neck as she cursed them all.
It hit Evelyne so violently she pressed both palms against the cool surface of the vanity to steady herself, her breath ragged, though her face remained composed — like a portrait come to life.
Her reflection was too clean. Too untouched by the horrors she carried.
Why?
The question pulsed inside her skull.
Was it a curse? The venom-soaked words she'd spat before the axe? Did the gods pity her? Laugh at her? Or was it something older, some ancient force buried in the bones of this crumbling kingdom that refused to let her die quietly?
A cold laugh escaped her lips.
It didn't matter.
Mercy or mockery — she would use it.
The nobles had called her cold, ruthless, unfeeling. They'd been wrong.
Before, she'd hesitated. She'd left room for love, for loyalty, for the soft, suffocating hope that Aldric might yet be the man she once believed him to be.
Now? Now there was no room.
Evelyne straightened, flexing her fingers as if testing the strength of this reborn body.
She still had time. Days, weeks, months before the web of treachery tightened. She knew where every thread lay. Every false smile. Every poisoned cup. Every whispered promise.
And Damon… Damon Virelle. The war hero, sharp-eyed and stone-hearted. The man who had bled for this kingdom only to be discarded. In her first life, she'd ignored him — a mistake she would not repeat.
And Mirelle. The Fox of the Court. Opportunistic, clever, loyal only to survival. She'd fought for Evelyne in the end. This time, Evelyne would pull her in sooner.
A bitter grin tugged at her lips.
Seraphina Valeine.Saintess. Liar. Murderer.
How sweet it would be to peel the silk from her throat and reveal the rot beneath.
Evelyne's voice was steady as she spoke to her empty reflection.
"This time, I'll burn the world before you ever touch me."
And in the mirror, she almost believed the storm in her own eyes.
A sharp knock at the door.
Evelyne turned, pulse steady now, the fire in her blood banked to a cold, perfect blade. She adjusted the fall of her hair over one shoulder and slid into the persona they all knew — the duchess, the court's cold rose, beautiful and poisonous in equal measure.
"Enter," she called.
The door opened and Mari stepped inside, clutching a folded gown and a nervous smile. "Forgive me, my lady. I didn't wish to wake you earlier. The engagement ball preparations—"
"I'm aware," Evelyne said, voice cool silk. "And you were wise not to disturb me earlier than minutes ago."
Mari bobbed a hurried curtsy, relief flickering in her eyes. Foolish girl. Evelyne almost pitied her.
Almost.
"Lay out the crimson gown," Evelyne ordered, gliding toward the mirror, watching the girl in its reflection. "The one with the onyx trim."
Mari hesitated. "But, my lady… you said you'd never wear that one again. You said it was—"
"I'm aware of what I said," Evelyne cut in softly. "I've changed my mind."
Changed everything.
The crimson gown had been a scandal in its day — too bold, too dark, too dangerous for a future queen. Aldric had hated it. Called it unbecoming. Said it made her look like a widow at her own wedding feast.
Which was exactly why she would wear it now.
"I want every eye on me tonight, Mari," Evelyne murmured, tracing the rim of a crystal goblet. "They'll think me vain. Defiant. Predictable. Let them. It makes the dagger easier to slip between their ribs when they least expect it."
Mari blinked, confusion flickering across her face.
Evelyne turned toward her, a slow, dangerous smile curving her lips.
"Tell the kitchen to send up wine. Not that cloying sweet vintage. The good bottle. The one hidden behind the cask of pear brandy. And find Captain Varrin's man in the stables. Tell him the fox stirs early."
Mari's mouth opened, closed. She wasn't meant to understand. She wasn't meant to question.
"Yes, my lady," the girl whispered and fled, skirts whispering over stone.
The door clicked shut.
Evelyne let the mask crack, just a hair, as she stared at herself in the mirror.
The war was beginning. The court would smile, the prince would grin, the saintess would glow.
And every one of them would bleed before this was over.
She reached for the crimson gown, fingers brushing the rich, dark fabric.
"Let the little dove come," Evelyne said under her breath, a savage promise in the words. "I'll clip her wings myself."
The moment the door clicked shut behind Mari, Evelyne crossed the room in long, measured strides. The cool stone beneath her bare feet grounded her in this absurd, impossible reality. It was hers now — and no one else would shape it.
She flung open the lacquered cabinet by the hearth, revealing a collection of ledgers, letters, and sealed documents. Secrets she'd hoarded in her old life but never acted upon swiftly enough. How many lives could she have saved had she moved faster? How many could she have ruined if she'd dared?
This time, she wouldn't hesitate.
She retrieved a thin parchment and began writing in a quick, elegant hand.
To Captain Varrin:The shadows gather sooner than expected. Ready the list. The fox stirs. The viper sheds its skin.
She sealed it with the Draymoor crest and set it aside.
Then, she pulled out a second sheet.
To Mirelle Ashven.One word, little fox. Tonight. By the east fountain. Wear sapphire if you choose to live.
A cruel smile tugged at Evelyne's lips. Mirelle would understand. The woman was far too clever to miss the implications. And if she hesitated… well, Evelyne would have no use for the weak this time.
The faint chiming of the manor clock signaled the eighth bell.
The engagement ball.
She remembered it perfectly.
The perfume-drenched courtiers. The sly glances over goblets of goldleaf wine. The king's bored expression. Aldric's smug grin as he took her hand and announced their betrothal to the world — while already planning her execution five years hence.
And Seraphina, dressed in modest white, the perfect vision of a humble saintess arriving late by royal invitation. A calculated entrance meant to spark pity, curiosity, and a quiet challenge to Evelyne's status.
Not this time.
Evelyne would unmake their careful script, word by word, glance by glance.
She swept the crimson gown from its place, laying it across the bed. The fabric shimmered like spilled blood in the dying light. No meek pastels tonight. No softness. Let them choke on their propriety.
She moved to the tall mirror, locking eyes with her reflection.
Not Evelyne the betrayed. Not Evelyne the hopeful.
No.
Evelyne Draymoor, the storm reborn.
"I will rewrite every line of your precious little play," she murmured to the empty room. "And by the time you realize it, I'll be holding the dagger."
A knock sounded at the door again.
"My lady," Mari called nervously. "The prince's carriage approaches. It's time."
"Good," Evelyne said softly, eyes like glass shards. "Let's play a little ."