The rain was falling again. Soft, deliberate drops against the glass — the same rhythm that had echoed through the corridors of Valestria Manor on the morning she died.
Countess Eunha Valestria stirred awake to that sound. For a moment, she thought it was a cruel dream — the kind her poisoned mind had conjured in her final hour. Her body remembered death: the coldness in her veins, the bitterness of betrayal, the taste of iron on her tongue.
But when she opened her eyes, the ceiling above was not the gilded vault of her duchy's chamber, but a familiar, simpler one — ivory plaster with faint cracks running like old scars. The canopy around her bed was pale rose silk, unfrayed by years of wear. And outside her window, the morning light carried no smoke, no screams — only birdsong.
Her breath caught.
This room had been torn apart a decade ago, during her first engagement season. She was twenty again.
She sat upright, fingers trembling as they brushed the coverlet. Her skin was smooth — not the pale, bruised pallor of her deathbed — and her hair fell heavy and black down her back. Her reflection in the mirror confirmed the impossible: eyes clear, cheeks alive with color.
"Ten years," she whispered. "The gods have a cruel sense of humor."
A knock broke her trance.
"Milady? Shall I bring the morning tea?" The voice was soft, youthful — unmistakable.
Mirae.
Eunha's throat tightened. Her dearest handmaid had died shielding her from assassins during the coup. Yet here she was, alive and unaware of the tragedy that waited ten years ahead.
"Yes," Eunha managed, her voice unsteady. "Bring it."
When Mirae entered, the scent of jasmine followed her — the same blend Eunha had favored before she married the Duke. Everything was identical: the bustle of servants below, the laughter of horses in the courtyard, the morning bells from the chapel.
She sat motionless as Mirae poured tea, trying not to let her tears show.
"Milady? You look pale. Did you dream of something unpleasant?"
"Just… something I thought I'd forgotten."
Mirae smiled, setting down the teapot. "Well, perhaps a walk in the gardens will clear your mind. The estate is blooming early this year."
Eunha nearly laughed — she remembered those same words from that very morning. She'd gone walking then, too, unaware that by nightfall her engagement would be sealed with a prince who would later destroy her house.
Not this time.
She forced a smile and sipped the tea. "You're right. Tell the steward to prepare the carriage instead. We'll visit the city."
Mirae blinked. "The city, milady? But your father—"
"Will understand," Eunha interrupted gently. "There's something I need to see."
⚜️
The capital of Ardanielle shimmered with early spring rain. Merchants shouted, fabrics fluttered like banners, and every sound carried a vitality she'd forgotten existed. It was strange to walk among people who did not yet fear her family name.
A small boy darted past, chasing a wooden hoop. The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted through the air. Her carriage rolled to a stop near the central fountain — the same place she remembered standing years later, surrounded by soldiers who had come to drag her away.
She stepped out slowly. The stone beneath her slippers felt warm despite the rain. Life — her second life — pulsed under her feet.
And that was when she saw him.
Sir Jiheon Ardent.
He was standing guard at the western gate, armor polished, cloak heavy with rain. Younger than she remembered — a touch less hardened, his jaw less scarred — but his eyes were still the same quiet steel that had haunted her after death.
He hadn't seen her yet. In her first life, they met formally a week later at her engagement announcement. But now, fate had handed her an earlier moment — a blank space she could rewrite.
Her pulse quickened.
She should have turned away.
Instead, she walked toward him.
"Sir Ardent."
The knight froze mid-salute, surprised that a noblewoman addressed him by name. Then he bowed deeply. "Countess Valestria. You honor the guard post."
His voice — younger, steadier — struck her like a chord from a forgotten song.
Eunha smiled faintly. "I prefer to see the city myself sometimes. It reminds me that the world is larger than the manor walls."
"That is not an opinion I often hear from the nobility," he said carefully.
She tilted her head. "Then consider it your first scandal of the day."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. She remembered how rarely he smiled in the years that followed. He'd been loyal beyond measure — loyal enough to die shielding her from assassins she'd never seen coming.
Now, she stood before the man who had died for her, alive again, unaware.
It hurts to breathe.
"I've heard you were recently promoted," she said, forcing composure. "To the Commander of the Third Regiment, was it?"
"Acting Commander," he corrected. "The position is temporary until the council approves my oath."
"Then they're fools if they hesitate."
He blinked — not expecting praise. "You speak boldly, milady."
"I've learned that life rewards boldness."
For a fleeting second, their eyes met — and in that stillness, Eunha felt the weight of two lifetimes compress into one heartbeat. The memory of his blood on her hands collided with the warmth of his living gaze.
Mirae's voice interrupted from behind. "Milady, the rain's worsening. We should return."
Eunha nodded reluctantly. "Sir Ardent, thank you for indulging my wanderlust."
"It was my duty, Countess."
As she turned away, she heard him murmur — almost to himself —
"Strange. The way you said my name felt… familiar."
⚜️
That night, Eunha stood before her mirror again. The candlelight flickered, reflecting two versions of herself — the Countess who had died and the woman who refused to.
She opened her jewelry box and removed a silver hairpin shaped like a hawk — the gift Seojin had given her the day he promised her protection, before betraying her with poison. She clenched it until her palm bled.
"No more waiting to die," she whispered. "This time, I will choose who holds the blade."
Outside, thunder rolled across the valley, echoing through the marble halls.
And somewhere beyond the manor gates, a young knight looked up at the same storm, feeling — though he could not explain why — that his oath had already begun.