Elowen Virell opened her eyes to the sound of bells.
Not the soft kind these were heavy, iron bells, tolling like a verdict.
Her throat burned. Her head throbbed. The air smelled of incense and cold stone.
She knew this place.
That realization hit harder than the pain.
No… that's impossible.
She pushed herself upright and froze when unfamiliar hands came into view slender, pale, adorned with a sapphire ring engraved with the Virell crest.
Her breath hitched.
This body wasn't hers.
Across the room, a tall mirror reflected a young woman with silver-blonde hair and sharp, aristocratic features. Beautiful. Arrogant-looking.
A face she had seen countless times before.
The villainess.
Elowen Virell.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.
"This isn't real," she whispered.
But the ache in her chest, the chill of the marble floor beneath her feet, the sound of bells growing louder outside the palace walls everything was far too vivid.
Memory flooded in, ruthless and clear.
This was the world of The Saintess and the Crown—a novel she had read obsessively years ago.
And Elowen Virell?
She was the antagonist.
The jealous noblewoman who framed the saintess.
The woman abandoned by her fiancé.
The one publicly disgraced, stripped of title, and executed
Tomorrow.
Her vision darkened.
So this is how I die… again.
She staggered toward the mirror, gripping the edge as her breath came fast and shallow.
"No," she said, forcing the word out. "Not yet."
A sharp knock echoed through the chamber.
"Lady Elowen," a maid called nervously. "The High Council summons you. Immediately."
Her blood ran cold.
This was it.
In the novel, this was the scene where everything collapsed the false accusation, the saintess's tears, the nobles' outrage.
The beginning of her end.
Elowen straightened slowly.
If she followed the script, she would be dead within twenty-four hours.
If she panicked, she would still die.
So she made a choice.
I won't survive by begging.
She lifted her chin, her gaze sharpening.
I'll survive by refusing to play my role.
"Tell them," Elowen said calmly, her voice steady despite the storm inside her, "that I will attend."
The maid hesitated. "M-My lady… should you not prepare—"
"No," Elowen interrupted, already moving. "They're waiting to see me break. I won't give them that satisfaction."
As the palace doors opened and the echo of bells followed her down the corridor, Elowen recalled a detail the novel had brushed past.
During this trial
There was a silent observer.
A man who did not speak.
A man who did not intervene.
A man feared across the empire.
Kael Drayven.
The Duke of the North.
In the original story, he had watched her execution without expression.
This time
Elowen's lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile.
"Let's see," she murmured, stepping into the light,
"what happens when the villainess refuses to die quietly."