There was blood on the silk.
Not the kind that trickled from a paper cut or the accidental graze of a blade. No—this blood was thick, dark, and soaking through the hem of Elara's ivory gown like spilled ink on parchment.
"Your Majesty, you need to move—now!" shrieked one of her handmaidens, voice trembling with fear.
But Elara didn't move.
Her legs refused her, just as her kingdom had. Her fingers—once praised for their grace as they played the harp in court—trembled, slick with crimson. She clutched her side, where the dagger had found its mark, not even bothering to remove it. What was the point?
This wasn't a battle she was meant to survive.
The throne room echoed with chaos—shouts, screams, and the clash of steel against steel—but none of it reached her ears anymore. The world had narrowed into a tunnel of light and shadow, and in the middle stood them.
The council. The traitors.
The same men and women who had once pledged loyalty to her.
The same ones now watching her bleed.
"You should've listened," said Lord Riven, her former advisor. His blade still dripped with her blood. "You should've bowed to the demands. Married for alliance. Stayed in your place."
"My place?" she rasped, every word stabbing her throat. "Was never on my knees."
That earned her a snarl. "Stubborn to the very end."
"Queen Elara of House Mornveil," boomed another voice—Duke Carrow, her uncle by marriage and one of the main orchestrators of this coup. "You are hereby stripped of your crown and condemned for high treason against the empire."
"Treason?" she laughed—bitter, broken. "For protecting my people? For refusing to be your pawn?"
"History will remember you as a tyrant," Carrow said coldly. "An arrogant woman who clung to power beyond her worth."
No. History would remember her differently.
Or it wouldn't remember her at all.
The pain surged again—sharp and final. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the throne steps, staining the white marble red.
She had ruled for seven years.
Survived two assassination attempts, a war, a famine, and the death of her family.
But betrayal? Betrayal had always known where to strike.
Her body weakened. Her vision blurred. Her heartbeat slowed.
And yet, even in that moment, she did not cry.
Elara Mornveil would not die with tears in her eyes. If the world wanted her broken and kneeling, it would have to settle for a corpse instead.
She slumped forward, head resting on the cold stone.
Silence.
Except… not quite.
Something pulled.
Like a thread, unraveling.
A voice—no, many voices—whispered her name in a language she didn't recognize. Wind howled, though there were no windows open. The warmth of blood was replaced by something colder. Lighter.
She should've been gone.
But something—someone—wasn't done with her yet.
Elara tried to scream, but her voice was stolen as the world was torn from her, and the throne room dissolved into nothingness.
She woke to the scent of incense and iron.
Her first breath came like a gasp underwater, violent and desperate. She choked, coughing, and rolled to her side. Her fingers clawed at stone, dirt, and dried blood.
Her own?
No. Too old.
Where was she?
Light flickered above—torchlight, casting shadows on rough stone walls. The air was stale, dry, and humming with energy she couldn't place.
She sat up, slowly, her body aching like she'd been dragged through glass.
This wasn't the throne room.
It wasn't even her world.
Something was wrong.
She looked down. Her hands—smaller. Pale, but not the same. Her wrists were thinner. Her skin lacked the calluses of battle, and her dress was unfamiliar—rich velvet, torn and burned at the edges.
Then came the footsteps.
Voices echoed outside the room, growing louder.
"…the ritual worked. She's awake."
"After all these years… Seraphina Vale lives."
Elara froze.
Who?
The door creaked open, and torchlight flooded the chamber. Several robed figures entered, followed by guards in black and crimson armor.
"Lady Seraphina," said the lead robed man, bowing low. "By the grace of the Forgotten Flame, you have returned."
She stared at him, blood roaring in her ears.
Seraphina Vale?
That wasn't her name.
But something deep inside her—something not entirely hers—shuddered at the sound. As if the bones she now wore recognized it.
"Where… where am I?" Her voice cracked.
"You are in the Sanctum of Ashes, milady," said the priest. "Your body was laid to rest here after your… unfortunate death. But the gods have answered our prayers. You've come back."
Came back?
She hadn't just been reborn. She'd been summoned.
A different world.
A different body.
But not a clean slate.
Because the looks the guards gave her weren't reverent. They were cold. Distrustful.
As if they didn't see a miracle—but a curse reborn.
"What is this place?" she whispered.
"King Kael has ordered your immediate escort to the palace," said one guard bluntly. "You are to answer for your crimes."
Crimes?
The priest quickly stepped in. "Now, now, Seraphina has only just awakened—"
"Criminal or not," the guard growled, "she's alive, and her return will shake the realm. The king won't wait."
Elara's thoughts swirled.
So this body belonged to a woman with a past.
A traitor, perhaps. An enemy of the crown.
And now the king wanted answers.
Perfect.
Because Elara had questions too.
Who had summoned her?
Why this body?
And what kind of world was this—where a woman could be resurrected as a weapon?
She rose slowly, hiding the tremor in her limbs. She didn't fully understand who Seraphina Vale had been.
But if the world wanted her to wear the mask of a villainess… she'd wear it.
Better to be feared than forgotten.
As the guards flanked her and the torchlight flickered against ancient stone, she lifted her chin.
"I'll go," she said, voice steadier now.
"But I'm not the woman you remember."
They didn't reply. But their fear said enough.
She walked past them into the unknown, the echoes of her former name fading with every step.
---
In the palace, miles away, King Kael Dragos stood before his war map, jaw clenched.
"She's alive," whispered his spymaster.
Kael's fist tightened. "That's impossible."
"Witnesses saw her rise from the tomb. The priests confirmed it. The curse didn't take."
"Or perhaps it did," he muttered, eyes like steel. "And left behind something worse."
The last time he'd seen Seraphina Vale, she'd spat blood on the throne room floor and dared to call him a tyrant.
She'd disappeared soon after, presumed dead during her failed rebellion.
But now she was back?
Why?
And who was she now?
He didn't believe in miracles.
Only strategies and threats.
If Seraphina Vale had risen from the dead… then he'd make damn sure she wasn't here to finish what she started.
"Bring her to me," he ordered.
Alive. For now.
Elara—no, Seraphina—stepped into the royal carriage, heart thudding as the doors closed behind her.
A single thought echoed in her skull:
If this king wants a villainess, then let him have one.
She smiled, sharp as broken glass.
Let the game begin.