The city of Valemire had not changed. The same cobbled streets, the same air heavy with incense and secrets. Only the banners were new—black silk stitched with a silver serpent coiling around a sword.
Lucian Draven's sigil.
Seraphina stood at the edge of the marketplace as the town criers shouted the news again and again.
> "By order of the Crown, Prince Lucian returns from exile to reclaim his title!"
"The hero of the southern war has come home!"
Hero.
The word twisted inside her like a blade.
He had been a hero once, yes—before the curse turned him into something else. Before love became a weapon and devotion became a death sentence.
She pulled her hood lower, hiding her face from the crowd's excitement. Children waved small flags. Women whispered about how handsome he had been, how the kingdom owed him gratitude. No one remembered the villages he burned. No one remembered her.
Except her. Always her.
---
She made her way through the streets, the sound of hooves echoing on the stones. Posters bearing the serpent-and-sword seal were being nailed to every wall. "Royal Ball in honor of His Grace's return."
A ball.
Of course there would be one. The palace never missed an excuse for spectacle. And if Lucian was attending, that meant one thing—she would see him again.
The thought sent a tremor through her chest, half fear, half fury.
---
Back at the manor, her uncle was already pacing the parlor, his rings glinting under the chandelier. "Have you heard, Seraphina? The Crown Prince returns! This is a sign of the gods' favor. The Draven line restored—imagine the influence our family could gain if we—"
"Attend the ball?" she finished softly.
He smiled, satisfied. "Exactly. You have grace, beauty, breeding. If fortune smiles, perhaps even a prince's eye might fall upon you."
A prince's eye.
It already had—five lives ago.
She forced a demure nod. "I shall prepare."
---
That night, she didn't sleep. She sat before her window, moonlight washing her in silver. Below, the city glittered like a net of stars. Somewhere out there, he was already moving toward the capital—toward her.
Memory pressed close, unwanted yet vivid: his hand around her throat, his whisper against her ear. Forgive me. The scent of smoke. The flash of steel.
Seraphina pressed her palms together until her nails cut skin. The pain steadied her.
> "Not forgiveness," she murmured. "Retribution."
---
The next morning, she sent her maid to the dressmaker with precise instructions—nothing bright, nothing soft. Black velvet, embroidered in crimson. A gown meant not for admiration, but for recognition.
When she looked at herself in the mirror later, the reflection stared back like a stranger. Sharp. Composed. Dangerous.
> "He won't see a victim this time," she whispered. "He'll see a rival."
---
As she left her chamber, a folded letter awaited her on the dresser. Unmarked. No seal.
Her heartbeat stumbled as she opened it. Only one line was written inside, in a hand she knew better than her own:
> "Even death couldn't keep you from me."
The paper trembled in her fingers.
No signature, yet she didn't need one. She could feel the weight of his presence in the ink itself.
He already knew.
---
A soft wind passed through the window, snuffing the candle's flame. Darkness swallowed the room.
Seraphina closed her eyes.
The curse was awake.
The game had begun.
> "Then come find me, Lucian Draven," she whispered into the night. "And this time, let's see who burns first."