Chapter 1
1120words
At the execution ground, the crowd's murmurs blended into indifferent background noise. Seraphina von Lunaria knelt on the cold stone slab, blood frozen in her veins. She watched her father—once the kingdom's strongest shield, the Duke of Lunaria—now in prison rags, calmly offering his neck to the blade. When the executioner's axe fell with a sickening whoosh, the scream trapped in her throat died behind clenched teeth.
Tears and snowflakes blurred her vision as the scene shifted.
A dark, damp dungeon reeking of mold and despair. The iron door screeched as a slender figure appeared at the entrance. The hem of her dress beneath the fur cloak was exquisite and magnificent, grotesquely out of place in this filthy hole. Isabel. Her treacherous cousin.
"Sister," Isabel purred, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. She gracefully crouched down, wearing the smile of a victor. "Father's head is hanging on the city gate. How many ravens do you think will feast on his eyes tonight?"
She gripped Seraphina's chin, forcing her face upward.
"Don't give me that look. You and your family were merely stepping stones for Prince Lucien and me to climb to power. Your pathetic loyalty, your father's laughable honor—such perfect fuel. And now?" She shrugged. "The fuel is spent."
A bottle of deep purple liquid pressed against Seraphina's lips. Isabel's tone remained light, yet cruel: "Drink. Consider it the Crown Princess's final mercy."
Pain like wildfire scorched from her throat through every limb and vein. As consciousness slipped into boundless darkness, a single thought burned in Seraphina's mind—if she could start over, she would make these bastards beg for death.
…
The phantom agony suddenly vanished.
Seraphina gasped, bolting upright from an exquisite velvet armchair. No cold dungeon. No burning poison. Only the familiar scent of books and beeswax filling her lungs.
She blinked in confusion. This was her father's study—a warm fire crackling in the hearth, afternoon sunlight streaming through stained glass, casting kaleidoscope patterns on the carpet. The Lunaria family crest—a silver griffin with outstretched wings—hung proudly on the wall.
With trembling fingers, she touched her neck. Smooth. Warm.
Alive... she was alive.
This was no dream. That heart-piercing pain, that bone-deep hatred—too real. She had been reborn.
A gentle knock interrupted her thoughts. Her lady's maid Ella entered with a curtsy. "Miss, Lady Isabel sends word that she has prepared a surprise for you at the old watchtower in the west. She requests your immediate presence."
The old watchtower!
Those words unlocked a flood of sealed memories from her previous life.
It was happening today.
In her previous life, Isabel had lured her to the abandoned watchtower with promises of a "surprise." Waiting there was a stable hand known for his improper behavior. Prince Lucien would "coincidentally" pass by with a group of nobles, witnessing the "scandal." The prince would then play the magnanimous savior, "forgiving" her supposed transgressions, using the incident as leverage to control her and the entire Lunaria family after their engagement.
Seraphina's nails bit into her palms, yet her face remained a perfect mask. That deadly fire had burned away all innocence and weakness. Only cold ashes remained, waiting to ignite her revenge.
"Ella," she said, her voice unnervingly calm, "go to the stables and find a groom named Thomas. Tell him I'll bring the capital's finest physician to treat his sister's illness. The condition? This afternoon, he stays in his room. Nowhere else."
Ella blinked in surprise but quickly nodded and withdrew.
Seraphina glided to the desk and unfolded a sheet of fine parchment—the rose-scented stationery Isabel adored. She lifted a quill and, mimicking Isabel's elaborate flourishes, penned a passionately enthusiastic note.
She knew Isabel's habits and mannerisms better than the girl knew herself.
Letter complete, she addressed it to Baron Bogris—the estate's notorious buffoon. A fat, greedy lecher with an insatiable appetite for beautiful women.
Task finished, she changed into a simple yet elegant dress and turned to Ella. "Let's visit the guard barracks. I'm terribly 'concerned' about cousin Isabel's safety. I've heard Baron Bogris was spotted lurking near the castle this afternoon."
Dusk fell over the old watchtower.
Isabel lurked in the tower's shadow, practically vibrating with excitement. Soon, Seraphina would be disgraced, and she, the comforting angel, would capture Prince Lucien's heart completely.
Footsteps approached—heavy and uneven, nothing like Seraphina's graceful tread. The tower door crashed open as a plump figure reeking of cheap wine stumbled in.
"My little beauty!" Baron Bogris wheezed, his piggy eyes devouring the stunned Isabel. "Your letter set my heart aflame!"
"You... what are you doing here? Get back!" Isabel retreated in horror as her intended prey transformed into a predator lunging toward her.
"Playing coy?" The baron advanced with a lecherous grin. "Wasn't it you who begged me to come in your letter?"
Isabel's scream shattered the evening stillness. Just as the baron's sweaty hands reached for her skirt, the tower door burst open again.
"Guards! Seize that brute who dares assault a noble lady!"
Seraphina's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. She stood framed in the doorway, the duke's guards with torches and drawn swords at her back. Firelight danced across her face, illuminating eyes devoid of sympathy—cold as winter ice.
Isabel collapsed to the ground, clothes askew, staring at Seraphina as though witnessing an avenging angel. Her face cycled through disbelief, fear, and confusion. Meanwhile, Seraphina rushed forward, wrapping her "trembling" cousin in her own cloak, her expression calibrated to display precisely the right mixture of alarm and concern.
"Good heavens, Isabel!" Seraphina gasped. "How could such a terrible thing happen? Thank God I was worried and asked the captain to accompany me to find you..."
That evening, the Duke was livid. Baron Bogris was thrown into the dungeon, while Isabel found herself under house arrest for "improper behavior," her reputation in tatters throughout the territory.
Late that night, Seraphina sat alone before her dressing mirror. She shed all pretense, studying her reflection. That young, flawless face—beautiful as an angel's.
The corners of her lips curved into a cold, joyless smile.
Revenge had only just begun.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in the capital...
In a study of black stone, surrounded by maps and dossiers, a tall man in black combat attire read a confidential report from the Eastern Territory. He was the king's brother, commander of the kingdom's most elite forces—the "Iron-Blooded Duke," Tristan de Montfort.
The report detailed the "scandal" that had unfolded at Castle Lunaria that day.
Tristan's battle-scarred hands tapped lightly on the parchment, his eyes—deep as a mountain lake—revealing nothing.
After a long silence, his thin lips parted to utter a single word.
"Interesting."
