The crimson gown clung to my form like a second skin—tight at the bodice, sweeping at the hem, with sleeves that flared like fire licking my wrists. I'd worn this dress once before, years ago, for a ball I had been too young to attend and too foolish to enjoy. That night I'd spilled wine on it, and a duchess had laughed at me for being "so eager to play grown-up." I had cried in the garden behind the ballroom, swearing never to wear red again.
But this time, I wore it with purpose.
The maids blinked when they entered and saw me dressed already, standing tall in front of the mirror. One of them—Jenna, I think—hesitated with the tray of hairpins in her hands.
"Milady… that gown… it's rather…"
"Striking?" I offered, turning to her with a calm smile.
She nodded, uncertain.
I sat before the vanity. "Braid it back, the way Miri used to. And use the obsidian comb."
Her fingers trembled as she worked. Poor thing. She was probably wondering if I'd gone mad. In the past, I would've demanded soft curls and daisies in my hair. I would've smiled too widely and tried too hard. But not now.
The villainess didn't need to be soft. She needed to be sharp.
When I entered the solar, my father barely looked up from his desk. He was a tall man with fading auburn hair and the permanent shadow of disappointment etched into his face. Lord Varence was already seated across from him, smirking like the oily toad he was.
"Elira told me you would attend," Father said without preamble. "You're late."
I wasn't. I arrived at the exact minute he expected me to—just not early, as he preferred. I bowed my head slightly.
"My apologies. I had to choose something… appropriate."
Lord Varence's eyes roamed over the crimson gown, lingering far too long. I resisted the urge to stab a hairpin through his eye.
"My lord," he said, nodding to my father, "you didn't mention how your daughter has grown. A vision, truly."
I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. "You flatter me, Lord Varence. Flattery suits you better than politics."
My father's mouth twitched. Whether it was disapproval or amusement, I didn't care. He gestured for me to sit.
"We were discussing the upcoming gala at the House of Magisters," he said. "The Caelora name must be well represented. Lord Varence will escort you."
Ah. So it had already begun.
In my last life, this arrangement had been forced upon me. I'd gone, like a lamb to slaughter, and left humiliated by a public proposal rejected in front of half the court. A scandal that tarnished my name further.
This time, I wouldn't play along.
"I won't attend," I said simply.
The room froze. My father looked up, finally meeting my eyes.
"You what?"
"I won't attend," I repeated. "Nor will I accept Lord Varence as my escort—or anything more."
Varence scoffed. "Is this some childish rebellion? Your father told me you had spirit, but—"
I turned to him, voice cool. "What you mistake for spirit is simply self-respect. A rare thing in this court, I admit."
"You insolent—"
"Enough," Father snapped. His eyes bored into mine. "You will attend."
"No," I said softly. "I will not."
A dangerous silence settled. For a moment, I saw his hand twitch, as if tempted to slap the disobedience from me. But I held my ground. I had been slapped before. I had endured worse.
He stood. "You shame this house."
"You've done that plenty without my help," I replied.
And then I left.
Outside, I didn't let myself tremble until I reached the corridor. My legs were shaking, my throat tight. I had defied him. I had never done that before—not like this. But the memory of that execution square burned behind my eyes. I would never let them herd me like a sacrificial lamb again.
A gentle voice broke my thoughts. "That was bold."
I turned.
There he was.
Lucien.
My heart stopped.
He stood a few paces away, leaning casually against a column as if he hadn't once plunged a sword through my heart. He looked… younger. Less haunted. No scars yet on his temple. No silver on his shoulder where the knight's insignia would one day gleam.
He was still in training.
He wore the blue and silver of the imperial cadet corps, and his eyes—gods, those same ice-grey eyes—studied me with mild amusement.
"You're not supposed to be back yet," I managed.
He tilted his head. "Neither are you, apparently."
I swallowed hard. What was I supposed to say? Hello, I'm your future murder victim?
"You heard everything," I said instead.
"I did." His tone was unreadable. "You stood up to Father."
"He's your father," I said bitterly. "Not mine."
Lucien flinched. It was faint—but I saw it. Even now, the word sister hovered between us like a fragile thread. Tied by blood through my mother's shame, and my father's pride.
"Still," he said at last, "you handled yourself like a Caelora."
I looked up at him, unsure if it was a compliment or a warning. "And how does a Caelora behave?"
"With teeth," he said, "but rarely with heart."
He walked away before I could reply.
I stared after him, breathless. My hands curled into fists.
If I was to survive this life, I would need more than teeth.
I would need to bite first.
Later that night, I sat at my desk with a candle burning low and parchment spread before me. Ink smudged my fingers. I had begun mapping every memory I could recall: betrayals, names, places, turning points.
The list grew longer with each hour.
Lord Varence's name topped the list, alongside Lady Elira, and eventually—Lucien Caelora.
But I paused when I reached his name.
Why had he hesitated that day? Why had he flinched at my final words?
What had made him raise the sword?
Was it truly hatred? Or was there something more?
The truth had been hidden in shadows last time. But now I had time. And time was power.
I stared at the flame, its light flickering in my reflection.
They think I am the villainess.
Let them.
But this time, I would write the story myself.
And I would rewrite my death.