The sky was crimson the day they beheaded the Empress.
Rain hadn't fallen in weeks, but the cobblestones of the royal courtyard were slick—red with blood, not water. The scent of iron clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Thousands gathered to witness the death of the woman they had once cheered for, then cursed. No one wept. No one begged for mercy.
Not even her.
Empress Ravina Elira Valtoris stood tall on the scaffold, her wrists bound in enchanted steel, her once-golden crown discarded in the mud below. Her long black hair clung to her face, soaked with sweat and humiliation, but her eyes—those cold, violet eyes—never left him.
The Crown Prince.
Alric stood at the edge of the platform, sword gleaming in the twilight. His white uniform was spotless, his golden epaulets shining like justice itself. The people called him a hero. Savior of the empire.
But she knew better.
"You look pale, Your Highness," Ravina said, her voice sharp despite the noose around her neck. "Nervous? Or guilty?"
Alric's jaw clenched. "You brought this upon yourself, Ravina."
"No," she whispered. "You did."
The crowd roared as the executioner stepped forward. A priest muttered blessings to the gods. Somewhere in the front row, a noblewoman sobbed—too late.
Ravina took one last breath, slow and deliberate. She had killed. She had conquered. She had ruled. And she had loved the wrong man.
Foolish.
She closed her eyes.
And smiled.
As the blade fell, a voice echoed—one only she could hear.
"Do you regret it?"
Darkness swallowed her.
She woke up screaming.
But the pain was gone.
No steel, no blood, no ropes. Just soft sheets, warm sunlight, and—
—roses.
The scent hit her first. She knew it. Ravina had hated roses since she was a child, ever since they surrounded her room at the Duke's estate.
No. It couldn't be.
She bolted upright.
Her room was smaller. Simpler. A four-poster bed. Wooden floors. The same cracked mirror over the fireplace. The curtains were pink. The walls were ivory. This was—
"This is my room," she whispered, throat dry. "From seventeen years ago."
A knock shattered the silence.
"Lady Ravina?" A timid maid peeked in. "You'll be late for the carriage to the capital."
The capital.
The imperial court.
The first day of her doom.
"No," Ravina choked, pressing her hands to her face. Her fingers were thinner. Softer. Her voice—was higher.
She ran to the mirror.
A young girl stared back at her. Sixteen. Untouched by war. Untainted by power. Her violet eyes were wide with terror. Her lips trembled. Her cheeks were rounder.
She hadn't worn that face in nearly two decades.
"What is this…?" she whispered. "A dream? A trick?"
Or—
A second chance.
The gods must be laughing.
She remembered it all. The lies. The betrayals. The day she was forced into the palace to become a political bride. The man she would love. The crown she would earn. The blood she would spill.
The death she would suffer.
She gripped the edge of the dresser, trying to calm the tremor in her chest.
If this was real… then she had time. Time to change everything. Time to rewrite her ending.
This time, she would not be the lamb.
She would be the wolf.