The last thing I remembered was the executioner's axe glinting under the pale sun. Now I was drowning in a bathtub.
Strong hands shoved my head underwater again. Bubbles exploded from my nose as I thrashed. Not again. I won't die a second time like a drowned rat!
When the hands finally loosened, I lunged out of the tub, gasping. The stone floor froze my bare feet. A girl in a maid's uniform stared at me, her knuckles white on the bucket she'd used to drown me.
"L-Lady Elara?" she stammered. "The physician said the bath would calm your nerves…"
Bullshit. I recognized that look—the twitchy gaze, the sweat on her upper lip. I'd seen it on dozens of traitors' faces in my past life. My past life. Gods, I really came back.
Cold realization hit harder than the bathwater. I was Elara Thornwood, the fifteen-year-old daughter of a disgraced duke. In my previous existence, I'd been Empress Morgana's spymaster until she chopped off my head. Now I occupied the body of a girl who'd "accidentally" drowned today in history books.
The maid edged toward the door. "I'll fetch dry towels, my lady—"
"Stop." My voice came out raspy but sharp. A strange warmth prickled my palms. The maid froze mid-step.
That's when I felt it—the sour tang of her fear, seeping into me like smoke. It buzzed in my veins, hot and addictive. This body has magic. Not the flashy fireballs from bards' tales, but something darker. Something hungry.
I rose slowly, water sluicing off the thin shift. "Who paid you? The Queen? Or my dear cousin Viola?"
Her breath hitched. More delicious terror flooded my senses. I could almost see it—a greasy purple haze coiling from her chest toward my hands.
"I don't know what you—"
"Liar." I took a step forward. The purple haze thickened. "You put something in my wine at supper. That's why I was dizzy enough to 'slip' in the bath."
Her composure cracked. "No one was supposed to know about the wine!"
Got you. The admission sent a jolt through me. The purple mist surged into my palms, burning like swallowed lightning. Power. Raw and dangerous.
Suddenly the door burst open. Two royal guards in silver breastplates flanked a woman with ice-blonde hair coiled like a serpent. Queen Mother Lysandra. The architect of my first death.
"Elara, darling," she purred, her eyes flicking to the trembling maid. "Making a mess again?"
The maid dropped to her knees. "Your Majesty, I can explain—"
Lysandra waved a gloved hand. One guard drew his dagger. A wet thud. The maid crumpled, crimson spreading across stone.
My new magic roared in response, feeding on the violent death-throes radiating from the body. It took every shred of will not to laugh. You think you control this game, Lysandra? I invented it.
The Queen Mother smiled, stepping over the corpse toward me. "Such a pity about your maid. Now, let's discuss your upcoming marriage to Prince Theron…"
Cold dread snaked down my spine. Prince Theron—the mad sorcerer who'd disemboweled three wives. My magic writhed, tasting my own fear now. Survival just got complicated.