The dungeon reeked of damp straw, mould, and the sharp tang of rusted iron chains. The cold air gnawed at Seraphina D'Arlais's exposed skin, seeping through the tattered rags that barely clung to her body. Her wrists were bound by heavy shackles, the metal biting into her flesh, and her ankles were weighed down by iron cuffs that clinked faintly with every small movement. Yet, despite the filth and the cold, Seraphina sat with her back ramrod straight, her head held high. Her pride, the unyielding core of who she was, remained untouched, a blazing fire in the dark.
She was, after all, the proud daughter of House D'Arlais, a noble lineage that had shaped the empire for centuries. From the moment she could walk, she had been moulded to be a queen—trained in etiquette, politics, strategy, and magic. Her sharp mind had memorised trade routes, balanced the empire's treasury, and fortified its borders. Her beauty had once been the talk of every court, her name whispered with awe as the jewel of the empire. But now, she was, cast into the shadows, branded a criminal.
Her crime? Poisoning the saintess.
Seraphina's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. How utterly ridiculous.
The accusation was absurd, a flimsy lie spun by delicate hands and tearful eyes. She had no need for poison—her power, intellect, and presence had always been enough to command respect or fear. Yet the empire had turned on her, swayed by whispers and crocodile tears. Her allies had abandoned her, her family had forsaken her, and the man she had once been betrothed to now stood against her. The betrayal stung, but it was the absurdity of it all that made her want to laugh.
The heavy silence of the dungeon was broken by the sound of footsteps—steady, deliberate, and growing louder. Seraphina's sharp ears caught the rhythm, and she tilted her chin upward, her emerald eyes narrowing. Whoever was coming, they were no ordinary guard. The air seemed to shift, carrying the faint scent of polished leather and expensive perfume. She braced herself, her heart steady despite the chains.
The heavy iron door creaked open, spilling a harsh beam of torchlight into the dim cell. Seraphina squinted against the sudden brightness but refused to flinch. Two figures stepped into the dungeon, their silhouettes framed by the flickering light. Her breath caught for a moment, not out of fear, but out of the sheer audacity of their presence.
It was the Crown Prince, Alaric, his golden hair catching the torchlight like a halo. He was as handsome as ever, his chiselled features and broad shoulders making him look every inch the storybook prince. His hand was wrapped tightly around the wrist of the so-called saintess, Elara, whose pale, delicate frame seemed to glow in the dim light. Her wide, doe-like eyes shimmered with unshed tears that clung to her lashes, and she leaned against Alaric with a fragility that seemed almost rehearsed. She was the picture of innocence, a vision in white silk, her every movement calculated to inspire pity and adoration.
"Your Highness," Elara whispered, her voice soft and sweet, like honey dripping from a spoon, "must we really come here? To look upon her..."
Her voice broke, trembling with a perfectly timed sob, as if the mere sight of Seraphina in chains was too much for her gentle heart to bear.
Seraphina's lips twitched. She almost clapped. Oh, what an actress. Truly flawless. The saintess's performance was impeccable, a masterclass in manipulation. Every quiver of her lip, every flutter of her lashes, was designed to tug at the heartstrings of anyone watching. And it worked. The guards stationed at the door shifted uncomfortably, their gazes softening as they looked at Elara. Even the air seemed to bend to her will, wrapping her in an aura of untouchable purity.
The Crown Prince pulled Elara closer, his arm wrapping protectively around her slender shoulders. His smile was tender, warm, the kind of look he had never once given Seraphina, not even when they had been betrothed. "You're too kind, my dear," he said, his voice low and soothing. "But it must be done. This woman needs to know her crime cannot go unpunished."
He turned his gaze to Seraphina, and the warmth vanished. His eyes were cold, unfeeling, like chips of ice in a winter storm. It was a look she knew well, one that had grown more frequent in the months leading up to her downfall. "Three days from now, your execution will take place," he declared, his voice ringing with finality. "You poisoned the saintess. For that, you'll die."
Elara flinched at his words, as if the very mention of death pained her fragile soul. She pressed her delicate hands against Alaric's chest, shaking her head. "Your Highness... please, don't speak so harshly," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She lowered her gaze, and a single tear slid down her cheek, catching the torchlight like a perfect pearl. "I never wanted this. I never wished for her death. It... it breaks my heart to see her like this. She was once your fiancée... and I admired her so much."
Her trembling voice filled the cell like a mournful hymn, and the guards looked away, their faces softening further, as if moved by her boundless compassion.
Seraphina's stomach churned. She had to fight the urge to gag. The saintess's act was so polished, so convincing, that it was almost admirable. Almost. But Seraphina saw through it—through the tears, the trembling, the carefully crafted innocence. She saw the truth lurking beneath, sharp and cold as a blade.
She sat there, silent, her gaze fixed on the pair. She wasn't interested in their theatrics, only in why they had come. Did they expect her to beg? To grovel? To confess to a crime she hadn't committed? The thought was laughable. She wondered, idly, if they had come to gloat or if they simply needed to see her broken to feel secure in their victory.
Her silence seemed to unsettle Elara. The saintess sniffled, her lips quivering as she clutched Alaric's arm. "See? She doesn't deny it," she said, her voice breaking again. "Even now... she cannot bring herself to ask for forgiveness."
Alaric's eyes hardened, his jaw tightening. "Pathetic," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain.
For a long moment, Seraphina simply stared at them. The two of them, clinging to each other, basking in the glow of their shared delusion. The saintess, with her crocodile tears and trembling hands, and the prince, with his righteous fury and blind devotion. It was a scene straight out of a farce, a twisted play where she had been cast as the villain.
And then, it started.
"Fufufufuf..."
A soft chuckle escaped her lips, low and quiet at first. But it grew, bubbling up from deep within her chest, until it burst forth in a wild, unrestrained laugh. "Aha... ahahaha—hahahaha!"
The sound echoed off the damp stone walls, sharp and piercing, filling the dungeon with its intensity. Seraphina laughed until her ribs ached, until tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She laughed like a madwoman, her head thrown back, her shackled hands clapping together as if applauding the grand performance unfolding before her.
Elara's face drained of colour, her eyes widening in fear. She pressed herself closer to Alaric, her trembling hands clutching at his sleeve. "Y-Your Highness... she's laughing at me," she whispered, her voice quaking.
Alaric's scowl deepened, his grip tightening on Elara. "What is so funny, Seraphina?" he demanded, his voice sharp with anger.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Seraphina straightened, her posture regal despite the chains. Her noble aura, her unyielding pride, shone through the filth and the rags. Her emerald eyes burned with a fierce, icy light, cruel and unapologetic. "What's funny?" she echoed, her voice sharp as shattered glass. "Everything. All of it. That I bled for this kingdom. That I stood at your side in war councils, calculated trade routes, raised our treasury, defended our borders... while this porcelain doll shed fake tears and won your heart. And yet here I am. Accused, abandoned, betrayed. How... fitting."
Her words cut through the air, each one laced with venom. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze never leaving Alaric's. "I gave everything to this empire. I fought for it, bled for it, poured my soul into it. And what do I get in return? A cell, a lie, and a death sentence. All because of her." She tilted her head toward Elara, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.
Elara shook her head, her hands flying to her face as if to shield herself from Seraphina's words. "I-I don't understand why she hates me so," she whimpered, her voice trembling. "I've done nothing wrong."
Seraphina tilted her head, her smile turning predatory, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Oh, darling... you've done everything wrong. You took what was mine, dressed it in holy white, and called it fate. You wove your little web of tears and lies, and the whole empire fell for it. But not me. Never me."
Her laughter returned, low and menacing, like the growl of a storm on the horizon.
Alaric stepped forward, his face a mask of cold fury. "No amount of words will change your fate," he said, his voice like steel. "You will be executed. Even your family does not wish to save you. Accept it with some dignity."
Seraphina's smile sharpened, her eyes glinting with defiance. "Ah, yes. My family. Those spineless cowards." She dragged her tongue over her teeth, as if savouring the bitterness of her own words. "They turned their backs on me the moment your precious saintess pointed her finger. But make no mistake, Your Highness. Only one person is allowed to kill me."
Her eyes flickered with a deadly resolve, a spark of something untamed and dangerous.
"What in the world are you talking about?" Alaric asked, his brows lifting in confusion.
Before anyone could react, Seraphina lunged. Her shackled hands shot through the bars with terrifying speed, her fingers closing around Elara's silken golden hair. She yanked, hard, pulling the saintess forward with a vicious tug. Elara shrieked, stumbling against the bars, her hands flailing.
"Ahhhh!" the saintess cried, her voice high and panicked.
"Seraphina!" Alaric barked, reaching out, but the iron bars kept him at bay.
Seraphina's grip was merciless. She twisted her hand, tearing a chunk of golden hair from Elara's scalp. With a triumphant sneer, she flung it to the floor, where it landed like a discarded trophy. Elara wailed, collapsing against Alaric's chest, her hands clutching at her head. "It hurts! She... she tried to kill me again!" she sobbed, her voice thick with tears.
Alaric's fury shook the dungeon. "Open the cell!" he roared at the guards, his face contorted with rage. "I'll kill this woman myself!"
But Seraphina was already smiling, her expression serene and deadly. She raised her hand, and a faint shimmer of frost gathered in her palm, forming a jagged shard of ice. The air around her seemed to grow colder, the torchlight dimming as her magic flared.
"No need," she said softly, her voice calm but laced with finality.
She pressed the icy shard against her chest, just above her heart. Her eyes locked onto Alaric's, and for the first time, she saw something new in his gaze—uncertainty. His mouth parted, his cold facade cracking, revealing a flicker of shock, perhaps even regret.
How amusing. She had thought he would be glad to see her die, to be rid of her forever. But this look... this hesitation... it was unexpected. Delicious.
"I told you," she said, her voice steady despite the pain creeping into her chest, "the only hand allowed to take my life... is mine. Once I leave this world, I hope you'll have all the time with your lover. Goodbye... Crown Prince."
With a swift, decisive motion, she drove the ice deep into her heart.
Blood burst forth, warm and wet, spilling over her chest and soaking the rags she wore. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her vision blurring at the edges. Elara screamed, but Seraphina caught the glint in her eyes—the faintest spark of excitement, of triumph. The saintess was finally getting what she wanted: the prince all to herself.
Alaric's face blurred in her fading vision, but his eyes... those eyes held something she couldn't quite name. Shock? Regret? It didn't matter now.
Her lips curled into one final, defiant smile. "Regret looks ugly on you... Your Highness."
Darkness swallowed her whole.
.
.
When her eyes fluttered open, the world was different. Gone were the damp stone walls, the rusted chains, the suffocating stench of the dungeon. Instead, she lay on a rough, lumpy bed in a small, unfamiliar room. The walls were plain, made of cracked plaster, with no banners or velvet curtains to mark it as a noble's chamber. A single, grimy window let in a sliver of pale light, revealing a world far removed from the opulence she had once known.
Her hand brushed against her hair, which was tied into a tight, messy bun, the strands coarse and unfamiliar. She looked down at herself and froze. Her body was clad in a cheap, ill-fitting maid's uniform—gray, threadbare, and smelling faintly of stale sweat. Her hands, once soft and adorned with jeweled rings, were rough and calloused, the nails uneven.
"What trick is this?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. She reached for her magic, the familiar well of power that had always been at her fingertips. But there was nothing. The air was empty, lifeless, devoid of the mana that had once flowed through her like a river.
Before she could process the strangeness, a shimmer of light caught her eye. Letters, glowing and foreign, appeared in the air before her, floating like ghostly fireflies.
[System Initiated]
[Welcome, Host.]
Her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding. "What...? Who's that?" she demanded, her voice sharp despite her confusion.
The glowing words shifted, rearranging themselves with an eerie fluidity.
[I am your Guide.]
[Do not be alarmed. From this day forward, I will assist you.]
Her vision spun, her mind racing to make sense of it all. A guide? A strange new world without mana? Her heart thudded in her chest, a mix of fear and curiosity stirring within her. She sat up, her movements slow and deliberate, as she stared at the glowing words.
"Is this... the afterlife?" she whispered, her voice trembling for the first time.
The words shimmered again, as if considering her question.
[This is not the afterlife. This is a new beginning.]
Seraphina's lips parted, her mind reeling. A new beginning? In a world without magic, without her title, without her power? She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. Whatever this place was, whatever this "system" was, she would not cower. She was Seraphina D'Arlais, and no matter the world, she would carve her own path.
Her eyes narrowed, a spark of her old fire returning. "Then let's see what you have in store for me," she said, her voice steady once more. "I do not dislike a new beginning."