She clung to the front of his navy breast coat, hands trembling, knees buckling beneath her as she sunk down to the cracked cobblestone. A black envelope with a red seal was crumbled in his gloved hand like a discarded promise. Her extravagant red silk dress billowed out around her like the blood of a slaughtered lamb, rain pouring down mercilessly.
Short auburn tresses plastered themselves to her flushed cheeks, tangled and sodden, as she bowed her head low, unable to meet the eyes of the shadowed figure towering over her. Her chest rose in short desperate gasps like a newborn as she whimpered in agony. The vice commander to the man she had once vowed eternity to, now covered in soot like a burnt offering.
A mirthless laugh ripped itself from her throat, "I loved him! I would have done anything for him!" He scoffed, scorn painting his face, rain pooling in puddles across the desolate courtyard.
"Traitor. You never loved him," he said, voice low, almost tender in its cruelty. "You loved power. You loved nothing — not even yourself." His chest heaved, the faintest twist of his lips relaying disgust and pity, his visage obstructed from her. Then, with a push that was more symbolic than forceful, he shoved her away. She fell backward, palms scraping against the unforgiving cobblestone as the decadent courtyard of flowers drowned in the rain.
Behind them both, their shadows swallowed by the pitch black of the night, the gilded estate she once shared with her husband burned in the middle of the night — a cage of glass and gold folding in on itself like a void. Steam arose once the rain met the embers as servants ran with buckets of water and partygoers fled the scene, the mud slicking the ground like freshly spilled blood. It was too late for them to quench the fire's thirst.
For a moment, she could only stare at him through the haze. He stood ramrod rigid, fists at his sides, a soldier shaped by war and cruelty. A scowl twisted his lips, concealing his red rimmed eyes as he snarled, "Marquess Celosia is dead. Your marriage, your home, your life as you knew it--they're gone too. Now this place belongs to those who conquered it." He turned to look behind himself briefly, the bloodcurdling sound of screams covered by the collapsing of stone.
Her palms burned where they had scraped the ground and her stomach began to churn violently like a knife through the gut. She vomited as if she had more to give, the act hollowing her chest until her throat felt as though it would cramp shut forever. The fire raged in the dim distance, the clash of steel nearing them, and the hooves of calvary slamming against stone with the finality of a closing book.
Then came the ash falling soft and gray like fresh snow, clinging to her lashes, coating her lips, and drifting down into her lungs as if to choke her. Her whole world titled as her chest ached, the very air trembling. She could barely string a coherent thought together much less a response to his viciousness. She licked her parched lips, and as the rain slashed against her she coughed out "Why come here, then?", her voice cracking despite the tempest swirling within her. A flash of silver caught her eyes behind him. "If this is all you wanted now — to control me with a name, a contract, a vow — then you've already lost. My heart has been torn in two by this country and now that man!"
For a fraction of a second, the harsh lines and layers of his young face softened, a shadow flitting across features carved by war. He opened his mouth to speak and she willed the words of mercy to pour forth from his tongue. Yet, before he could even begin, a horrifying screech cut through the chaos of her mind and this moment: an axe scraping stone. Hunched over on the ground, she froze.
A hulking figure, layered in steel plates, advanced upon them with the noise of one running with a pile of plates. Each step carried the weight of inevitability. The vice commander turned, sword drawn, and the armored figure lifted his axe, preparing to strike a killing blow. In that moment, in that twist of the clunky body, she met the eyes of the hulking figure and saw the way their blue squinted behind the shape of a steel helmet.
Fear. Utter fear struck her bones. The figure's axe swung in the air almost gracefully --- a conductor to the thousands of arrows soaring across the dim sky as the fatigue roared in her body. Sword against axe. She had not known the tension of such a piston, the throbbing in one's chest, the pounding of the heart against skin as she watched the battle. She had not yet discovered the way her blood would run cold.
In moments, the vice commander's head would be separated from the rest of his body, his blood mixing like oil and water with the cracked ground below. It would not be quick; one hack after one hack with the ruthless slice of merciless metal. Until the blood bubbled in his thin throat, gargled screams choking on his last breath, a foaming at the mouth, a rolling of the eyes. Falling onto his knees, the whimpering screams to have the enemy soldier end it, only to endure the pain until life drained out of him.
A flash of red sprayed out across the mud, sprinkling itself on her hands and neck like holy water as she screamed in bloodcurdling horror. She reached out toward him — and the sky cracked open.
A flash of white swallowed everything. Pain tore through her, a white-hot fissure that wrenched her body and soul asunder. A silence so complete it pressed against her ears.
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She awoke to birdsong.
She blinked slowly, her chest heaving, as her vision blurred with the memory that clawed at her mind. No, to call it a memory would be a disservice. Her life: the fire, scream, ash, the man delivering death. Her husband, gone. Her home, destroyed. Her heart shattered.For a long time, she did not move. Her body ached as though she'd been dragged through fire yet the air was cool and crisp. The scent wasn't smoke but roses.
Roses.
Sunlight filtered through the embroidered lace curtains. Her fingers twitched against the soft sheets, pulse throbbing in her temples, as if confirming this was real. She tried to lift her arms, and her limbs obeyed, though they felt foreign--lighter, stronger, and somehow unburdened. A faint breeze stirred the gaudy blue canopy of her bed -- her bed, she realized with dawning confusion. The carved mahogany post, the ivory sheets, the crack on the bedpost corner she'd always meant to have replaced after her brothers' failed attempts at sword practice.
This was her room.
But it couldn't be.
She sat up abruptly, a hand rising to her cheek, a scream of half agony half disbelief tearing itself from her lips. She was alive. She was here. And yet, she had already died once.
Trembling, she swung her legs painstakingly over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the ground as she stared at her hands. They were clean. No soot, no blood, no tremor. Every detail was sharp and impossibly vivid--impossibly real. The red silk gown was gone; in its place, she wore a pale nightdress — one she'd torn at the hem years ago when she accidentally embroidered a handkerchief meant for her father to her knee.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Miss Seraphina?" A familiar voice, tentative. "Are you alright? I've brought you tea."
Her throat closed. They hadn't called her Lady. "Elara?" she whispered, reaching a hand towards the door and leaning forward unbeknownst to the edge of the bed. Her body fell and she slammed into the ground, a heavy thud echoing in the silence of the room.
The door was thrown open, and there stood her maid — cheeks flushed, barely twenty, a tea tray laying in pieces on the ground. The same as she'd been five years ago, before the rebellion, before the letter, before she died.
Elara's eyes widened nervously as she rushed over. "Are you unwell, milady? You look as though you've seen a ghost." Elara fretted and with a trembling hand, helped to drag the Miss to her feet.
Seraphina nearly laughed, her body withering from the sudden sharp pain of the cherry wood floor. She was the ghost and yet the pain told her this was not a delusion as she grasped the nearby white ledge of her makeup vanity. Behind her, Elara wrung her hands. "I apologize Miss for not asking for permission to touch you but upon seeing you on the ground I feared for your health."
A strange mix of horror and relief tightened her throat and she could feel the pulse of life beneath her fingers, warm and steady, but the memory of the fire and blood lingered like a dog she could not shake. Half listening, her head spinning from shock and the pain of a recent loss, her gaze darted to the top of the vanities mirror face. A gilded invitation bejeweled in tiny pink diamond flowers was stuck into a crack on the side, the date etched nearly in the corner: Summer Gala, Month of the Dawn, Year 517.
Her breath caught. That was the night—the night the clock had begun to turn without her notice.
Five years before the estate burned.
She straightened her back slowly, Elara cleaning up the mess of teacups shattered in her hurry near the door, gripping the edge of the vanity to steady herself as the world tilted under the weight of realization. Her gaze fell on the scattered shards of the tea tray reflected in the mirror. The porcelain seemed impossibly fragile, the smell of tea leaves mingling faintly with the suffocating rose scent. She wanted to make sense of this but her mind froze. I died. I cannot be here and yet I am.
Somehow, impossibly, she was back.
The past stared back at her through the mirror with a slightly younger face, smooth and untouched by struggles and yet inside, she burned with a grief that remained in her bones. Elara, having cleaned up the mess, nervously stepped back towards her side.
"You've awoken before your usual time Miss. I feared that perhaps you've had a nightmare?"
Seraphina forced herself not to hyperventilate as the knowledge pressed upon her chest with unbearable weight: I have been given a second chance. But why? And how?
Her gaze wandered the room and lingered on more small details; the pink ribbon attached to the Summer Gala envelope, the bucket with a wet towel cast aside near her bed, the scar on the windowsill she once carved her initials into, and the blue and white vase near her doorway.
"Elara," Her voice trembled as she straightened her back, shoulder blades gutting through the back of her thin nightgown like wings, turning to grasp the shy maid's hands.
"Tell me. Tell me everything that happened while I...While I---"
The words caught in her throat like a noose tightened. Died. I died and so did you.
Elara's lips parted, her doe like eyes glittering with trepidation and concern.
"Miss it is just morning and you have awoken. Your mother just arrived back this morning and her brothers and father are still returning back from the expedition. No one can say why but...the household..everything...is as it was. We feared for you, for the hours before dawn as you laid alone withering in sickness on your bed."
Seraphina sank onto the stool in front of the vanity, clenching Elara's hands. She had been returned.
Outside, the bells of the capital began to ring, bright and oblivious to the storm brewing in her heart. Every chime felt like a countdown, a challenge to undo, change, or reclaim the time she had lost. The city beyond the windows shimmered in golden afternoon light, unaware that one of its daughters carried the memory of fire, betrayal, and love that had already cost her everything.
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