Morning sunlight bled across the horizon, soft and golden — too gentle for a world that had killed her so many times.
Seraphina sat at her window, staring down at the cobblestone courtyard below. The manor was quiet; servants moved like ghosts, unaware that the lady they served had lived and died five times already.
Five lives.
Five deaths.
All by his hands.
Her hands trembled around the teacup she held. The warmth should have been comforting, yet it only reminded her of the fire. She set it down before she could shatter it.
> "The Vale estate, year 1203," she whispered to herself.
She'd learned to take stock quickly in every new life. The year, the name, the people — everything mattered. Last time, she'd been a merchant's daughter. Before that, a priestess. Now she was a baron's orphaned child under her uncle's guardianship.
A noble's blood. Close to the capital.
Close to him.
Fate wasn't just cruel — it was precise.
---
A soft knock came at her door.
"Milady?" a voice called gently. "The carriage is ready. Your uncle requests your presence at the cathedral today."
Cathedral.
Of course. The gods' house. The same gods who had cursed her.
She composed her expression, schooling her voice into calm. "Tell him I'll be down shortly."
The maid nodded and left.
Seraphina turned back to the mirror. The woman staring back looked young — eighteen, perhaps. Her features soft, her eyes tired. No one looking at her would guess she'd been burned, stabbed, drowned, and poisoned across centuries.
She brushed her hair and dressed slowly, each motion deliberate. This time, she wouldn't be helpless. She had memory, will, and rage — gifts she had never carried before.
> "I've died enough for your entertainment," she muttered under her breath. "It's my turn to play."
---
The journey to the cathedral was short. The capital shimmered in the distance, white marble and silver banners fluttering under the sun. Seraphina's gaze lingered on the tallest spire — the Draven Citadel. His home.
The cursed prince. The godslayer. The man who had ended her over and over again.
A chill crept down her spine, though she refused to look away.
> "If you're still alive, Lucian," she whispered, "then so am I."
Inside the cathedral, the air was cool and smelled faintly of incense. Golden light filtered through stained glass, painting saints across the floor.
Seraphina's uncle knelt near the altar, muttering prayers. When he noticed her, he smiled — a sharp, political smile. "Ah, my dear niece. The priest wishes to bless you for the festival. You must look perfect when we present you to the court next month."
Court.
That meant nobles.
And nobles meant him.
She bowed politely but barely heard the rest. The priest's voice droned on about purity and devotion, his words distant, meaningless. Her thoughts were elsewhere — counting, remembering, planning.
When the blessing ended, she moved toward a small side altar — one dedicated to forgotten gods. Her gaze fell on a cracked statue of the Moon Goddess. Once, Seraphina had prayed there for mercy. Now, she only felt resentment.
> "You called it love," she whispered bitterly. "But it was a curse."
For a moment, the air shifted. The candle beside the statue flickered — though there was no wind.
Her heart stilled. The same faint whisper she'd heard that morning brushed her ear again.
> "He searches for you, even now."
The voice vanished.
Seraphina straightened slowly. The curse wasn't sleeping anymore. He was near — somewhere in this world, breathing the same air again.
---
Outside, as she stepped back into the carriage, a distant sound echoed through the streets — the tolling of the imperial bell.
The city crier's voice rang out over the square:
> "His Grace, Prince Lucian Draven, returns from exile! All are to prepare for his arrival at the royal court within the fortnight!"
Seraphina froze.
The world seemed to stop with her.
The fifth life had only just begun — and already, he was coming.
> "Then it begins again," she whispered, gripping her skirts until her knuckles whitened.
"But this time, I won't be the one to die."