Ayra woke up screaming.
The sound tore from her throat before she understood where she was.
Her hands flew to her chest.
No blade.
No blood.
No crushing weight of a dying body.
Only air.
Only breath.
Her room.
Her bed.
Morning light spilling through the window.
Her whole body shook violently.
Not again.
Not again.
She scrambled upright, fingers digging into the sheets. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. She could still feel it, the blade entering her chest. The way her lungs failed. The way Vincent's hands trembled over her wound.
She remembered everything.
Too clearly.
This was not fading like a dream.
It was sharp.
Painfully sharp.
She looked around the room wildly.
The folded letter on the desk.
The untouched silver ribbon.
The same morning light.
Her breath hitched.
She jumped off the bed and rushed to the window.
Below, in the courtyard, two young warriors were arguing during training.
Her stomach twisted.
"No," she whispered.
One shoved the other playfully.
The second jumped back,
Tripped on the edge of the mat,
Fell flat.
Exactly the same.
The same fall.
The same laughter.
Her knees nearly gave out.
This was the same day.
Seven days before the ceremony.
Again.
Her hands began to tremble uncontrollably.
She pressed them against the window frame to steady herself.
She had died twice.
First in the forest.
Second in the courtyard during the rogue attack.
Both are different.
Both are real.
Both ending with blood.
This was no nightmare.
No imagination.
No stress-induced hallucination.
Her body still remembered the cold of death.
She slowly walked backward until the edge of her bed hit her legs.
Then she sat down heavily.
Her breathing was shallow.
Slow.
Think.
In the first timeline, the rogue attack was quiet.
Targeted.
She had run into the forest after rejection.
They followed.
Killed her silently.
In the second timeline, the attack was loud.
A full assault.
A distraction to reach her.
Which meant,
Someone powerful was adjusting the plan.
Her heart skipped painfully.
Someone needed her dead.
Not embarrassed.
Not rejected.
Dead.
The realization settled like ice in her veins.
This was not fate punishing her.
This was strategy.
She closed her eyes tightly.
If she changed small things, events shifted.
In the second life, she had spoken back during the ceremony.
She had not run immediately.
Vincent had tried to stop her.
And the rogues attacked openly instead of secretly.
That meant the enemy was reacting.
Adapting.
The thought terrified her.
That meant they were watching closely.
Every timeline.
Every choice.
Her hands curled into fists.
No.
She forced herself to breathe deeply.
If someone was adjusting plans, then the future was not fixed.
It was flexible.
That meant she had power too.
Tears welled in her eyes, not from weakness, but from the overwhelming weight of it.
She was not imagining this.
She was reliving it.
And only she remembered.
A sharp knock sounded at her door.
She flinched violently.
"Ayra?" the maid called gently. "Breakfast is ready."
The same words.
The same tone.
Her throat tightened.
Everything had reset perfectly.
Except her.
"I'll come," she called back, forcing her voice steady.
Her voice did not shake this time.
She stood slowly and walked to the mirror.
Her reflection looked pale but different.
Not just frightened.
Awake.
There was something sharper in her eyes now.
Understanding.
Fear still lingered.
But it was no longer blind.
She touched her chest lightly.
Right where the blade had pierced.
She would not die again.
Not like that.
Not helpless.
She replayed Vincent's face in her mind.
Both times.
The first life, distant, cold during rejection.
The second life, tense, conflicted.
And when she was dying ,
Terrified.
Full of regret.
That memory burned the deepest.
He had not wanted her dead.
That much was clear.
So he was not the one ordering it.
Which meant,
Someone inside the pack.
Or someone close enough to know the ceremony schedule.
Close enough to know her movements.
Close enough to plan around Vincent's strength.
Her pulse quickened.
This was bigger than humiliation.
Bigger than rejection.
She had been focused on her broken heart.
She had not seen the real threat.
Now she did.
A slow knock sounded again.
"Ayra?"
"I'm coming," she said calmly.
She straightened her shoulders.
This time, she would not try to avoid the ceremony blindly.
This time, she would not panic.
She needed information.
She needed to watch carefully.
She needed to understand who benefited from her death.
Because someone did.
And they were confident enough to try twice.
She opened her door and stepped into the hallway.
Everything looked peaceful.
Ordinary.
Normal.
But now she saw it differently.
Every passing servant.
Every guard.
Every elder.
Any one of them could be connected.
Her chest tightened slightly.
The world had not changed.
She had.
As she walked down the stairs, she noticed something new.
At the far end of the corridor stood a man she did not recognize.
He wore pack colors.
But his posture was wrong.
Too alert.
Too observant.
When their eyes met, he looked away quickly.
Her heart skipped.
He had not been there in the previous mornings.
Or had he?
Had she simply not noticed?
Cold awareness spread through her.
The enemy might not only be reacting.
They might be testing her.
Watching to see if she behaved differently.
If she remembered.
Her spine straightened instinctively.
Then she forced herself to relax.
Weak.
She needed to appear weak.
Unaware.
If they thought she knew, they would move faster.
More violently.
She reached the dining hall and paused just before entering.
This was the same place where the week always began.
The same table.
The same faces.
But now she understood something clearly.
This was real.
The deaths were real.
The resets were real.
And this was her third chance.
Not to avoid rejection.
Not to save her pride.
But to survive.
Her hand rested lightly against the door.
Her fear settled into something colder.
Sharper.
Determined.
If someone wanted her erased from this world,
They would have to try harder.
Because this time,
She was watching back.