Adela stood frozen.
She was really there—back in the moment she had died.
The same room.Camilla's room.
Her eyes locked on two familiar figures: herself and Francis. He looked pale, weak—already poisoned. He was trying to speak, his voice broken and strained.
"D–on't d–o th–is…"
Adela's heart pounded as she watched her past self sitting before him, unaware of what was about to unfold. The weight of the memory crushed her. It was the day everything shattered.
She watched Francis draw his last breath.
Adela's pulse quickened. Her hands trembled. She remembered this pain—the confusion, the betrayal, the helplessness.
Her past self kept calling out for Camilla. But Camilla never came.
Then the door creaked open.
A girl in a black cloak stepped in.
Adela's breath hitched.
It was her.
The one who had killed her.
Everything happened just like it had before. The cloaked girl approached, silent and cold, and drove the blade into Adela's past self—
