The scent of smoke clung to her skin like a curse.
Seraphina Valea stood at the center of the pyre, her ankles and wrists bound in enchanted iron. The magic woven into the chains pulsed with every breath she took, dampening the power that once made the court tremble at her feet. Her once-royal crimson robes were tattered and stained with ash, barely clinging to her frame. Her raven-black hair, knotted and grimy from weeks of captivity, hung like a shroud around her pale face.
All around her, the capital gathered.
From the high marble balconies of the Palace of the Flame, nobles watched with their jeweled masks of indifference. Commoners crowded the lower tiers, some silent with pity, others shouting obscenities. They did not know the truth. Or perhaps they didn't care. Fear, after all, was easier to cling to than faith.
And above them all, seated upon a throne of silver and sapphire, was the man she once trusted more than anyone.
Prince Alric Damaris.
Seraphina's eyes locked onto his face — a perfect mask of royal detachment. He did not flinch. He did not speak. He did not look away. But she could see the tightness in his jaw, the faint tremble in his fingers as they gripped the armrest.
So he did feel something.
Good.
Let it haunt him.
"Seraphina Valea, former Royal Sorceress," rang the voice of High Seer Mordain, his arms raised in ceremonial flourish. "You stand accused of consorting with forbidden forces, of betrayal to the Crown, and of sacrilege against the Divine Order. Your magic corrupted. Your heart, blackened. The evidence is clear. You shall be cleansed by flame."
Lies.
Every word, a lie forged in fear and greed.
She had saved this kingdom. Again and again. From drought, from war, from plagues summoned by dark sorcerers in the north. And this was her reward: execution by the very people who knelt at her feet just a year ago.
Seraphina tilted her chin upward, refusing to cower. "And what of the corruption in the Court? What of the sacred gold you steal from temples, the blood oaths sworn in the dark halls beneath the castle?"
The crowd stirred, some murmuring, others silenced by fear. The High Seer's smile cracked, briefly.
"You seek to drag others into the pyre with you," he said smoothly, "but fire purifies all."
"You fear what you cannot control," she said, louder now. "You fear me because I know the truth. And because I am not yours to command."
There was a moment of silence.
Then, with theatrical solemnity, the High Seer nodded.
"Let the flames judge."
The pyre was lit.
A wave of heat swept through the plaza. Flames licked the dry wood piled around her feet, climbing eagerly, hungrily. Seraphina's heart pounded, but she stood firm, staring not at the fire, but at Alric.
Let him see. Let him watch.
He had been her friend. Her ally. Her love.
And her betrayer.
She had knelt beside him when his father died. Whispered words of strength into his ear when the crown grew too heavy. She had shielded him with her body when assassins tried to take his life. And now — he sentenced her to death with silence.
The fire reached her hem. Her skin began to blister. Pain, white-hot and relentless, surged through her nerves. And still, she did not scream.
She opened her mouth and whispered instead — words so old they had not been spoken since before the Empire rose.
"I curse your crown, your throne, and your name.
I curse the blade that protects you, and the lips that kiss you.
Let shadow follow every step you take."
It was not a spell. Not truly.
But magic hummed through her blood anyway.
A crack split the sky. Thunder growled overhead though there were no clouds. The fire flared unnaturally high, and for a moment — just a moment — even the nobles leaned back in alarm.
And in the final seconds, Seraphina's gaze never left Alric's.
"I will return," she whispered. "And next time, I will be the one holding the flames."
Then -
Pain.
Light.
Darkness.
She awoke with a gasp.
Air — sweet, clean air — filled her lungs. Her back arched, heart hammering. Her fingers clawed at the blanket beneath her.
Blanket?
She blinked.
The smell of smoke was still there, but fainter, more familiar. A fireplace crackled softly nearby. The air was warm, but not with the fury of flame — with comfort. She was in a room, not a prison. A room she knew.
Pale moonlight streamed through tall windows. A wooden desk cluttered with parchment stood in the corner. A tower of books leaned against the far wall. Above it, a long mirror reflected the image of a young girl — raven-haired, violet-eyed, pale with disbelief.
Herself.
But younger.
She stumbled to her feet and ran to the mirror, clutching its edges. Her hands were smooth. Her face unlined. Her voice, when it left her throat, trembled with both wonder and fear.
"I… I'm seventeen."
Her legs gave out, and she sank to the floor.
This was her room in the Arcanum Academy, where she had first trained in magic. Where she first met Alric. Where her journey began.
Ten years ago.
Her memories burned within her, sharper than any wound: the betrayal, the execution, the fire. Her death.
And yet she was here — reborn.
Not by accident. Not by chance.
Her voice steadied.
"I've come back."
The flames had remembered her.
And now, it was her turn.