They say the garden was built for peace.
I never liked peace.
Peace was a leash dressed in silk. I preferred chaos—because chaos, at least, was honest.
And tonight, beneath the yawning moon, the garden wasn't quiet. It was watching.
I stepped between the rosebushes, thorns brushing my gown like jealous fingers, until I saw him.
He sat on the marble bench like he owned it. One leg crossed over the other. Mask half-slipped. Blade balanced idly on one knee.
"You're late," he said, not looking up.
"I wasn't coming."
"You always come."
"I'm not her anymore."
He looked up then.
And the garden held its breath.
This wasn't the faceless killer from the original story. No. This man was poetry carved in blood and ruin. Raven hair. Silver rings on black-gloved fingers. A mouth made for sinning.
His eyes were the kind that knew your secrets before you spoke.
"I know who you are," he said.
I tilted my head. "Do you? Because I don't."
"Exactly." He rose, and the shadows rose with him. "That's what makes you dangerous."
I didn't step back. Let him come.
"Seraphina Vale died the moment I opened my eyes," I whispered. "What stands before you now is something else."
He stopped. Inches away. "Then tell me your name, something else."
"I don't owe you that."
"Then show me."
He reached for my face.
I drew my dagger.
And kissed him first.
Just for the taste of danger.
When I pulled back, his breath was gone.
"I don't play roles. I write them," I said. "And I don't bleed for men who bring knives to a crown game."
He laughed, low and sharp. "Good. Then bleed with me."
He dropped something into my hand. A silver ring. Cold. Cursed. Marked with a rune that hadn't existed in the original timeline.
"I'll be seeing you, Seraphina-Not-Seraphina."
"You'd better run," I said.
"Why?"
"Because I don't fall in love."
He smirked. "But you do burn things down."
And then he vanished.
Again.
But this time, I didn't watch him go.
This time, I smiled.
Because the story was finally starting to bend.
And this time?
It bends for me.