Darkness. Then the pain.
A sharp gasp tore through her throat as her eyes flew open, her body jerking upright. The world spun violently, her vision swimming in and out of focus. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind her temples, as though someone had taken a hammer to her skull.
Where—?
Her hands clutched at silken sheets, fingers trembling against the cool fabric. Not her hands. These were too pale, too delicate, the nails sharp and polished like claws, the skin unblemished except for a thin scar running along the inside of her wrist—a mark she didn't recognise. A cold weight settled in her chest, heavy as a stone.
This isn't right.
The last thing she remembered was the screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, the acrid smell of gasoline and burning rubber filling her nose. She had been in the backseat of a taxi, rain streaking the windows in blurred rivulets, her fingers clutching a worn paperback—The Forsaken Throne, her favourite novel, the one she had read a dozen times. The story of a kingdom cursed, of a princess doomed to betrayal.
She had been reading the climax—the moment Lady Seraphina Valemont, the reviled second princess, was executed for treason, her screams echoing through the throne room as the crowd cheered.
And then—
Impact.
Darkness.
Now, she was here.
The room was opulent, unnervingly so—high ceilings draped in shadow, candlelight flickering against gilded mirrors that reflected too much, too clearly. The air smelled of rose oil and something metallic, something that made her stomach twist. Blood?
A knock at the door—sharp, precise.
Before she could speak, it creaked open, and a maid stepped inside, her eyes downcast, her shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. The girl flinched the moment their gazes met, her fingers tightening around a silver tray bearing a single porcelain cup, steam curling lazily from its rim.
"L-Lady Seraphina," the maid stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're awake."
Seraphina.
The name hit her like a blade between the ribs.
No. No, no, no—
Her pulse roared in her ears, a frantic drumbeat of denial. She knew that name. Lady Seraphina Valemont. The cruel princess. The betrayer. The villainess who died screaming in the novel she had just been reading before—
The crash. The screech of tires. The world is going black.
She had been nobody in her old life. Just a quiet girl who preferred books to people, who spent her nights curled in bed, escaping into stories because reality had never been kind. No family left, no friends who would miss her. Just the empty apartment, the stack of library books, the ache of loneliness she carried like a second skin.
And now—this.
Her breath came too fast, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked bursts. This wasn't possible. This couldn't be real.
The maid set the tray down on the bedside table with trembling hands and backed away, as if afraid to turn her back. "His Majesty requests your presence by nightfall," she whispered, then fled, the door clicking shut behind her with finality.
Seraphina—no, not Seraphina, she wasn't her, she couldn't be— stumbled to her feet, her legs unsteady beneath her. The room tilted dangerously, and she caught herself on the bedpost, her fingers digging into the carved wood. A mirror loomed across the room, tall and ornate, its surface gleaming in the dim light. She forced herself toward it, heart pounding.
The face that stared back was a stranger's.
Pale, sharp-featured, with eyes like frozen silver—unnervingly bright, unnervingly cold. A slash of dark lips, slightly parted in shock. Hair the colour of spilt ink, half-tangled as if she'd been thrashing in her sleep. Beautiful. Terrifying.
This is her. This is the villainess.
Her hands flew to her throat, as if she could claw her way out of this skin, out of this nightmare. But then—
A flicker of movement in the mirror.
Behind her, in the reflection, a shadowed figure sat on the bed she'd just left. A woman in a tattered gown, her face a hollowed ruin, her lips parted in a silent scream.
Seraphina whirled around.
Nothing.
The bed was empty.
But on the sheets where she had lain, a single, rust-colored stain.
Blood.
And curled in her palm, half-crescent marks from where her nails had bitten into flesh.
A voice, whispering from the dark corners of the room:
"Welcome home, daughter of ruin."
The face in the mirror was wrong.
Not just because it wasn't hers, but because she knew this face. Knew it from countless nights spent hunched under blankets, fingers tracing inked words that had painted this very visage in her mind. Lady Seraphina Valemont. The second princess. The royal disappointment. The villainess who—
Her breath hitched.
—Who dies screaming in chapter thirty-seven?
The memory of the novel's climax crashed over her like icy water. She could see it perfectly: Seraphina kneeling on the executioner's block, her once-impeccable gown torn and bloodied, her silver eyes wild with desperation. The crowd is jeering. Her elder sister, Crown Princess Lysandra, watched with that infuriatingly serene smile as the axe fell.
And the worst part?
She'd cheered for that ending.
A strangled noise escaped her throat. In her world, curled safely in bed, she'd thought Seraphina deserved it. The princess had poisoned her brother, betrayed her allies, nearly plunged the kingdom into war—or so the novel claimed. But now, staring at this unfamiliar face, she wondered: Had any of that been true?
The novel had been frustratingly vague about Seraphina's motives.
She pressed her palms against the cool mirror, as if she could push through to some other reality. Her mind raced through fragmented plot points:
The Forsaken Throne centred on Lysandra's rise to power amidst court intrigue
Seraphina was the primary antagonist, constantly scheming against her saintly sister
The younger prince, Corvin, was Seraphina's pawn until his tragic poisoning
And Kaelan...
Her stomach twisted.
Kaelan Duskbane. The disgraced knight who became Lysandra's most loyal protector. The man who would, according to the novel, be the one to personally drag Seraphina to the execution block.
A fresh wave of panic set her trembling. If this were truly the novel's world, then she was trapped in a body destined for destruction. Every major event was already written:
The upcoming royal banquet, where Seraphina would publicly humiliate Lysandra
The "accidental" fire in the west wing that would kill three servants
Prince Corvin's poisoning during the autumn hunt
Her eventual execution for treason
The blood on the sheets took on new horror. What had the original Seraphina already done?
A sudden, violent memory—not hers, not the novel's, but Seraphina's—flashed behind her eyes:
Cold marble beneath her knees. The king's voice, dripping with disdain: "You will play your part, daughter." A vial pressed into her palm. Corvin's trusting smile across the banquet table.
She staggered back from the mirror, bile rising in her throat. The novel had never mentioned this. Had never shown Seraphina being ordered to poison her brother.
The ghostly whisper came again, slithering from the shadows:
"The story lies, little bird. Just as you lied to yourself when you called this fiction."
Outside, a bell began to toll. The king's summons.
She had until nightfall to decide: would she follow the novel's script to its bloody conclusion?
Or rewrite fate itself?