The carriage jolted violently, a sudden lurch that threw Magna against the plush, gold-embroidered velvet cushions. Her hands flew instinctively to her chest—searching for the arrow wound that wasn't there. The phantom agony lingered, a cold echo against her ribs, a ghost of betrayal that mocked her awakening. For a terrifying second, the metallic tang of her own blood filled her mouth, real as memory, before vanishing.
"My lady!" Sylvara's familiar voice gasped beside her, laced with alarm. Magna's handmaiden, always so cheerful, her face usually unlined save for the faint creases of laughter, was now etched with genuine concern. "You cried out in your sleep. Are you unwell? We must have been dreaming, for your face is pale as fresh snow."
Magna stared at Sylvara's unlined face, seeing the carefree innocence that time, and war, had erased from her memory of the future. She then looked down at her own unblemished hands, clad in the fine, long sleeves of her rich, shimmering gold gown, the bodice intricate with black beadwork. This was it, the gown for her arrival, the very dress she had worn five years ago, meticulously crafted for this momentous occasion. Outside the window, the brilliant, almost blinding turquoise waters of the Varethyan coast sparkled under the midday sun, a thousand diamonds scattered across the waves. The scent of salt and pine filled the air, carried on a gentle breeze—so sickeningly sweet and fresh, so utterly different from the iron-and-ash stench of her last, brutal memories.
This isn't real. This can't be real. The thought screamed through her mind, a frantic, desperate protest against the overwhelming reality of her surroundings.
Yet, the chill of her elaborate dark, beaded circlet on her head, the precise weight of the matching black choker at her throat, felt undeniably solid, grounding her in this impossible moment. She was in the bridal procession again, exactly as it had been five years ago, nearing the culmination of the very same arduous journey that had led her from the wild, storm-swept shores of Varethys to the grand, intricate bureaucracy of Xianthos. A journey to a destiny she thought had ended in blood and fire, in the chilling embrace of a husband who called her queen even as he condemned her to death.
"Sylvara," Magna began, her voice a strained whisper, though she fought to keep it steady. "How long… how long until we arrive?"
Sylvara blinked, her brow furrowing slightly, as if Magna had asked a foolish question. "My lady, have you forgotten? We are almost there! We'll be arriving at the Imperial Sanctum in less than two hours, my lady. Prince Lucien himself will be waiting to greet you! Unless," she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper, "you're getting cold feet? After all this travel, you wouldn't want to keep your dashing prince waiting, would you? He must be terribly eager to finally meet you!"
Magna forced a weak, unconvincing smile, a desperate attempt to feign normalcy. "No, no, just… a particularly vivid dream. My mind is still muddled from the long journey." She needed more, something concrete to anchor this impossible reality. "And… what day is it, precisely? And the year?"
Sylvara laughed, a bright, musical sound that grated against Magna's raw nerves. "My lady, you truly are a sleep-addled bird this morning! It is the third day of the Azure Serpent, in the Year of the Dragon, of course. The year of your marriage! Is the Xianthosi sun already making you forget your own calendar? You'll be the laughingstock of Jadeon if you don't recall the most important date of your life!" She winked conspiratorially. "Don't worry, your devoted handmaiden will remind you of all the important details, even if you insist on dreaming of dragons instead of duties right before your wedding!"
The casualness of Sylvara's answers, the sheer normalcy of her lighthearted teasing, hammered home the impossible truth. Magna truly was back. Back in the past, with a future she knew, but now had the terrifying chance to change. Her fingers instinctively clutched the Storm-Onyx pendant at her throat, the cool, dark gem a stark anchor in the swirling chaos of her mind. Fragmented memories, like shattered glass, assaulted her from both timelines, overlaying each other, blurring the edges of reality:
Lucien's laugh, warm and genuine, echoing through the Moon Garden as he caught her stealing peaches from the imperial trees, his fingers brushing hers, sending shivers through her...
His strong hands, long and elegant, guiding hers on the sword training grounds, his breath warm against her ear as he corrected her stance, a flicker of genuine admiration in his gaze...
The way his amber-brown eyes, so often sharp and calculating, had softened with a tenderness she had once believed in, when she presented him with that first painting—a vivid sunset over Haelmora's cliffs, a piece of her homeland brought to his...
And then, crashing through the tenderness, shattering it into a thousand sharp splinters, came the vivid nightmare: His hands encircling her, holding her upright as her legs failed, his murmur against her ear, "It is the duty of the Queen to die for her King." The sheer, soul-crushing cruelty of it, juxtaposed with the warmth of those early, seemingly innocent memories, ripped through her. How could both versions of him coexist in one man? How could those tender moments, those shared smiles, lead to such a monstrous, calculated end? The dichotomy threatened to tear her sanity apart.
"Stop the carriage!" Magna's voice, though firm, was raw, cracking the air. It was a command, not a request, carrying an unexpected weight of desperation.
With a groan of protesting wood and a jingle of harness, the carriage halted. Magna stumbled onto the dusty road, gulping air like a drowning woman, the clean, dry scent of the plains filling her lungs. The Scarlet Plains stretched endlessly before her, an immense, indifferent canvas of golden grasses rippling under the vast, blue sky. She felt the warmth of the sun on her face, the dust of the road clinging to her gown, and still, the dream-like quality of it all persisted. At the crossroads ahead, the path split—a well-worn track veering left towards Xianthos and what had been her duty, and a lesser-used, wilder trail turning right towards Kazaroth and a tantalizing, treacherous promise of freedom.
Run, whispered a desperate voice in her mind, the voice of her murdered self, raw with the memory of betrayal. Let them destroy each other without you. Change the choice. This is your chance. Take it.
But another memory, bittersweet and haunting, surfaced from the 'first' life—a moment she had clung to through the long, lonely years. Lucien pressing his forehead to hers in their wedding chamber, whispering vows not of politics, but of heartbroken longing: "I wish we'd met in another life." Had that been a lie too? A manipulation, crafted with his cold, calculating mind, even in that intimate moment? Or had a part of him truly felt it, a fleeting moment of genuine emotion, even as he consigned her to death? The lines blurred, an agonizing dance between the man she remembered, and the monster of her final moments.
The rumble of approaching wheels broke her thoughts, pulling her back to the immediate, terrifying 'present'. A second carriage, sleeker and darker than hers, pulled alongside. Its black lacquer gleamed with jade and turquoise inlays, catching the midday sun, a shadow against the vibrant plains. Through the parted curtains, a man lounged with careless, almost languid grace. His long, flowing hair, the color of spun gold, spilled over one shoulder, catching the light like a halo. His piercing emerald green eyes, holding an ancient wisdom that belied his youthful countenance, glinted with an unsettling amusement. Intricate, swirling patterns of the same vibrant green were subtly etched near the outer corners of his eyes, like forgotten elven script.
Prince Leolvhant.
Magna's breath caught, a sharp intake of air. In her 'previous' life, she'd only met Lucien's exiled half-brother months after her wedding, when he'd come to court bearing Kazarothi spices and irreverent jokes. The man who'd once sketched her portrait by firelight, his slender, graceful fingers moving with swift precision, then burned it before the embers could reveal too much, perhaps sensing the tragedy that lay ahead.
His emerald gaze locked onto hers now with unsettling intensity, a knowing glint in their depths that seemed to pierce her very soul. "Lost, little storm?" His lips, a soft, natural curve, barely moved as he spoke, the question a silken caress on the breeze.
The familiar nickname sent a violent shiver down her spine, chilling her to the bone. He shouldn't know that name—not yet. Not until the night he'd found her weeping in the Imperial Sanctum library over a letter from her father, a night that, in this timeline, hadn't happened yet. This was her past, playing out exactly as it should, but his words spoke of her future…or her impossible memory of it. It was another confirmation, another piece of impossible, terrifying proof of her impossible return.
Magna forced herself to look away, her gaze sweeping back toward Xianthos' distant spires, shimmering faintly on the horizon, a monument to her inevitable destiny. The answers—the brutal truth of Lucien's betrayal, the reason for her father's desperate war, the meaning of the strange dark stone that had granted her this second chance, and the terrifying whisper of a new path—all waited there. And perhaps, the truth of how Leolvhant, Prince of Kazaroth, knew her deepest, secret name, a name only her father, and perhaps Lucien, had ever used.
As her carriage creaked forward again, the groan of its wheels a mournful counterpoint to the wind, she caught Leolvhant's final words, carried on the wind like a premonition, his voice a low, melodic hum that seemed to carry the weight of distant lands and ancient secrets:
"What storms await us in the Imperial Sanctum, I wonder? Perhaps, my little storm, you will find your own answer there."