The first thing that returned was the cold.
Not the searing agony of flames, but something more familiar, more suffocating—rough fibers digging into her throat, hard and unyielding, greedily crushing the last breath from her lungs.
Eleanor Fleming's eyes snapped open.
Darkness did not greet her. Instead, she found herself staring at the faded linen canopy above her bed, the musty beams of old timber, and the dim, grayish morning light filtering through a narrow window.
This was not the pyre. Not the screaming mob. Not the inferno. Not hell.
It was her old bedroom in the countryside. The one she had left behind years ago, when she had still been Eleanor Fleming.
No.
A violent cough tore through her chest as her hand flew to her throat. Smooth skin. No rope burns. No broken bones grinding against each other. Only her heartbeat—heavy, real, and alive—pounding against her ribs.
Memory crashed over her like a wave. The fire. Seraphina's last cry. The Inquisition. The accusations of witchcraft. The public humiliation. The noose.
They had died—she and Seraphina both. Condemned as witches, hanged for the crime of a love the world would never forgive.
Hatred surged through her, sharp and venomous. It coursed in her veins like poison, burning away the fog of confusion. It threatened to tear her young body apart.
She pushed herself upright, scanning the room. Every detail—the furniture, the coarse linens, the smell of the air—pointed to a single truth: she was sixteen again. Three years before the tragedy.
Three years.
Enough time to change everything.
Enough time to hunt down every last betrayer. Enough time to drag them, one by one, into the hell they had prepared for her and Seraphina.
Soft footsteps came from beyond the door. Eleanor—no, Eleanor Warren now (her new identity would reveal itself soon, perhaps in a servant's words)—forced the fury from her eyes, arranging her face into the timid, uncertain expression of a girl her age. She needed information. Confirmation.
"Miss, you're awake?" The maid, Martha, stepped in carrying a basin of warm water. "You seemed restless in your sleep."
"A nightmare," Eleanor murmured, her voice rasping just enough, mimicking the tone she remembered from her younger self. "Martha… what day is it? I feel a little… muddled."
"It's the third day after Candlemas, miss," Martha replied, setting the basin down and smoothing the bed. "The weather's warming, but the mornings are still chilly. You should wear something thicker."
The third day after Candlemas. Eleanor quickly counted. Thirty-one months until the summer that had destroyed her life. Time, this time, was on her side.
At the washstand, she splashed her face with icy water. Her reflection wavered in the basin: pale but striking features, long strands of golden hair, and gray eyes far too lifeless for someone of sixteen.
Eleanor Warren. A distant relative, orphaned, and taken in by the family. Poor, but just noble enough to keep her seat at the table. Unremarkable. Convenient.
At breakfast, she carefully drew information from Martha and the steward, piecing together the timeline, the setting, and the names around her. That was when she heard it: Father Lucien Croft, newly returned from the seminary, now serving as a clerk at the local Inquisition.
Lucien Croft…
Her mind stirred with half-forgotten scraps. In her past life, there had been rumors—whispers that the handsome, pious young priest was not as flawless as he appeared. Something about him and a certain knight. A little too close. A little too dangerous. The gossip had been smothered quickly, but not before Eleanor had heard it.
The heart of her plan crystallized. The Inquisition was the key to her vengeance. And Father Croft—with his secret—might be the perfect stepping stone.
For the next few days, Eleanor played her role to perfection: quiet, withdrawn, harmless. But she watched. She listened. She lingered near the church and the Inquisition's halls, waiting for the proof she needed.
It came on a drizzling afternoon.
Carrying a bundle of embroidered linens as a donation, she slipped into the church, careful to avoid the crowd. Passing through a neglected cloister that led from the courtyard to the graveyard, she froze. Voices drifted from behind the half-open door of an abandoned storeroom.
"…Gabriel, this is too risky! The Inquisition is right next door!" The voice was hushed, trembling—but unmistakable. Father Lucien.
"What are you afraid of? You're always so cautious, Lucien." The second voice was deeper, smooth, and laced with lazy amusement. "No one comes here. Unless you've grown tired of me?"
"No! That's not it. But if someone finds out—"
"Finds out what? That the esteemed Father Croft and his knightly friend are… studying scripture?" The man named Gabriel chuckled, low and wicked.
Eleanor pressed herself against the damp stone, peering through the crack in the door.
There was Lucien, back turned, his priestly robe disheveled. Opposite him stood a blond knight in ornate armor—Sir Gabriel Thorn—one hand tilting the priest's chin with casual intimacy.
"Gabriel, don't—" Lucien's plea was weak, his resistance nonexistent.
"Oh? Don't what?" Gabriel leaned in closer, smiling.
Eleanor's pulse quickened—not with fear, but exhilaration. She had him. Clearer evidence than she had ever dreamed.
She waited, patient, until the soft sounds from within grew unmistakable. Then, with calm precision, she slipped one of the old letters she had brought—a meaningless prop meant for donation—into her satchel, and deliberately dropped her handkerchief in plain sight near the door.
Timing her move, she called out, her voice clear but not alarmingly loud:
"Excuse me…? Is someone there? I think I lost my glove around here…"
The noises inside cut off instantly. A tense silence followed. Then the frantic rustle of clothing.
After a few long seconds, Eleanor pushed the creaking door open.
The two men had already stepped apart. Lucien was pale, lips trembling, fumbling to smooth his robe. His eyes brimmed with shame and dread. Gabriel, though clearly annoyed at the interruption, wore his arrogance like armor. His sharp blue eyes flicked over Eleanor, calculating.
"Miss… Warren?" Lucien's voice cracked with dryness.
"Father Croft? Sir Thorn?" Eleanor widened her eyes just enough, feigning confusion and embarrassment. She stooped to retrieve her handkerchief. "I'm sorry—did I interrupt something? I only got lost, and…"
Her gaze "accidentally" lingered on Lucien's half-fastened collar, then drifted to the lingering smirk on Gabriel's lips.
"Nothing at all," Lucien blurted, his attempt at composure betrayed by his ashen face. "We were only… discussing church business. The cloister leads that way, Miss Warren."
"Oh, thank you, Father." Eleanor smiled with innocent gratitude. She hesitated, then added softly, her tone light but edged with frost: "It seems… you and Sir Thorn are very close."
Lucien flinched as if struck.
Gabriel's smile faltered into a frown. He stepped forward, his voice dangerous. "What exactly are you implying, Miss Warren?"
Eleanor met his eyes, her false innocence dissolving into something colder, sharper. She turned away from him, fixing her gaze on Lucien instead.
"My meaning is simple, Father," she said, each word deliberate and clear in the small room. "If the bishop—or the judges of the Inquisition—were to learn of your… extraordinary friendship with Sir Thorn, would they still call you a blameless servant of God?"
Lucien recoiled, his back hitting the wall, as if her words had stripped the strength from his body. Terror hollowed out his face.
Eleanor tilted her head, gray eyes gleaming with merciless calm.
"Tell me, Father… would you rather keep wearing that holy robe—or join the heretics and witches whose confessions you so dutifully record in the dungeons?"
The last hint of color drained from Lucien Croft's face.
Eleanor Warren knew, with icy satisfaction, that her first step had succeeded.
The noose that once claimed her life now dangled over her prey. And this was only the beginning.