Seraphina's POV
I can't breathe.
My throat is on fire. My stomach feels like someone is twisting a knife inside it, over and over. The cold marble floor presses against my cheek, but I can't move. Can't scream. Can't do anything except die.
This is it, I think. This is how I die.
Somewhere far away, music plays. Laughter echoes through the palace halls. They're still celebrating my wedding. My wedding to the Emperor. They have no idea his new bride is dying alone in the shadows.
Another wave of pain crashes through me and I bite my tongue to keep from screaming. Blood fills my mouth. Everything tastes like metal and burnt flowers.
Poison.
I know what this is. I read about it in that stupid novel, the one I found in my room last year. "The Emperor's Crimson Bride," it was called. A tragic love story about an emperor and his doomed wife. I remember laughing at how dramatic it was.
I'm not laughing now.
Because that story was about me.
The silver-haired bride who marries the cold Emperor. The wedding night. The poison. The death.
Every. Single. Detail.
I was so stupid. When I first realized I was living inside a book, I thought I could change things. I thought if I just smiled more, worked harder, made myself useful, maybe the story would be different.
But books don't change. Stories always end the way they're written.
And my story ends here, on this floor, eighteen years old and completely alone.
My vision blurs. The painted ceiling above me—gold dragons and silver phoenixes—starts to spin. I think about my wedding ceremony this morning. How the Emperor barely looked at me. How his gray eyes were empty when he said his vows.
Emperor Cassian Draegor. My husband of exactly six hours.
Does he know I'm dying? Does he care?
Probably not. The novel called him the Winter Emperor. Cold. Heartless. A man who destroyed everyone who got close to him.
I should hate him. But I'm too tired to hate anyone anymore.
My fingers twitch. I can barely feel them now. The poison is winning.
I don't want to die, I think desperately. Please, I don't want to die.
But nobody hears me. Nobody's coming.
I think about my family back home. My father who never looked at me. My stepmother who smiled when I left. My sister who laughed and said, "Finally, the unwanted daughter is gone."
They probably planned this. Sent me here knowing I would die. I was just a tool to them. A way to connect with the imperial family.
I hope they're happy.
The darkness is creeping in from the edges now. My heartbeat sounds weird—too slow, like it's forgetting how to work.
This is really the end.
I close my eyes. At least dying doesn't hurt as much as living did.
The music outside gets louder. Someone laughs.
And then everything goes black.
CRACK.
I gasp and my eyes fly open.
But I'm not on the palace floor anymore.
I'm sitting up in a bed. A soft bed with clean white sheets that smell like lavender. Sunlight pours through a window, warm on my face.
What?
My heart pounds in my chest. My hands—I can feel my hands! I look down at them, turning them over and over. No poison marks. No pain.
I touch my throat. It doesn't hurt.
I press my hand to my chest. My heart beats strong and steady.
I'm alive.
But that's impossible. I died. I know I died. I felt it happen.
Unless...
I jump out of bed and run to the mirror hanging on the wall. The face looking back at me makes my blood run cold.
It's me. But younger.
My silver-blonde hair is shorter, just past my shoulders instead of down my back. My face is rounder, softer. I look exactly like I did when I was—
"Seventeen," I whisper.
The door bursts open and a girl rushes in. "Miss Seraphina! You shouldn't be out of bed! You were sick all night, remember?"
I stare at her. I know this girl. Lucy. My maid from when I was younger. But Lucy left the Ashford estate years ago. My stepmother fired her for being "too kind" to me.
"Lucy?" I croak.
She smiles, relieved. "Yes, miss! Oh, thank goodness you remember me. You were burning up with fever. I was so worried!" She hurries over and tries to guide me back to bed. "Come on, you need rest. The imperial selection is in three months and your stepmother will kill me if you're not perfect for it."
I freeze.
The imperial selection.
Three months away.
My legs suddenly feel weak. I let Lucy help me sit on the bed because I don't trust myself to stand.
This isn't possible. The imperial selection happened three months before my wedding. Three months before I died.
I'm not just alive.
I've gone back in time.
"Miss? Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I have. I've seen my own death.
And now I'm back at the beginning, three months before it happens.
My hands start shaking. I grip the bedsheets to make them stop.
I have three months, I think. Three months to change everything. Three months to save myself.
But how? The story is already written. I'm supposed to marry Emperor Cassian. I'm supposed to die on our wedding night.
Can I really change a story that's already been told?
Lucy touches my forehead. "Your fever must still be affecting you. Here, drink this." She hands me a cup of water.
I take it automatically, but my mind is racing. If I'm really back in time, then I know things. I know what's going to happen. I know who betrays me. I know how I die.
Knowledge is power, right?
Maybe I can survive this time. Maybe I can—
"Oh!" Lucy suddenly gasps. "I almost forgot! This came for you this morning." She pulls an envelope from her apron pocket. "It's from the imperial palace."
My heart stops.
The envelope is made of expensive cream paper with a red wax seal. The seal shows a dragon—the imperial family crest.
"They never send letters before the selection," Lucy says, confused. "I wonder what it says?"
My hands shake as I take it. This didn't happen before. In my first life, I never got a letter from the palace before the selection.
Something's different.
Something's changed.
I break the seal and unfold the letter. The handwriting is sharp and precise, written in black ink:
Lady Seraphina Ashford,
I know what you are.
I know you remember.
Come to the selection. We need to talk.
Don't tell anyone about this letter. Don't trust your family.
Your life depends on it.
There's no signature. Just a symbol at the bottom—a crescent moon inside a circle.
"Miss? What does it say?" Lucy leans closer, curious.
I crumple the letter in my fist, my heart pounding so hard I think it might explode.
Someone at the palace knows I've traveled back in time.
Someone knows my secret.
And they're waiting for me.