Seraphina was ready.
The first step?
To mess with those who murdered her and brought her pain beyond words.
She'd spent this life hiding. Fearing. Escaping.
But now?
"If the world won't give me justice," she whispered, slipping on her gloves,
"then I'll make it myself."
One minute was all she needed. One minute to expose secrets, to slip notes in the right hands, to sabotage, to strike first.
She wasn't a puppet anymore.
She was the one holding the strings.
But there was more.
As her power deepened, it began to show her fragments—brief flashes of the future, like echoes of time not yet lived.
It came like a whisper behind her thoughts, a glimpse just before something changed.
At first, she thought she was imagining things. Until it saved her life.
One morning, while seated at the breakfast table, a flicker passed through her mind—a vision. A maid entering with a teapot, stumbling, scalding hot tea flying toward her lap.
When the real moment arrived minutes later, it played out just as she'd seen.
Only this time, Seraphina moved.
Only this time, Seraphina moved.
Calmly, precisely—like she already knew what would happen. The teapot crashed harmlessly to the floor, inches away.
The maid paled.
"How clumsy," Seraphina said softly, her eyes locked onto the woman like a blade held at her throat. "Perhaps you should be reassigned."
She was getting stronger.
More precise. More controlled.
Every minute of frozen time, every flicker of future sight—they were no longer burdens. They were tools.
And it was time to use them.
The grand ball was approaching—the same one where, in a past life, she'd been framed for pushing the oh-so-beloved female lead down the staircase.
It was the moment that shattered her already fragile reputation.
The moment that gave the Crown Prince a reason to turn the world against her.
Not this time.
This time, she would arrive early. She would trace every step, count every guard, study every movement. She would see the future play out, then unravel it before it could begin.
She wasn't going to survive the ball.
She was going to own it.
"Let the world see a different story," Seraphina whispered, eyes flashing gold. "One where I write the ending."
The day came.
The grand ballroom glittered with candlelight, velvet, and gilded vanity. Music floated across the marble floor as nobles whispered and twirled, oblivious to the silent war that was about to unfold.
At the top of the grand staircase, Liliana D'Artois stood with careful poise, her soft curls and sweet smile hiding the venom beneath.
She took a single step—then let out a piercing scream.
"Ah! L-Lady Seraphina, don't push me—!"
Gasps rang through the hall. Dozens of eyes shot toward the staircase.
But confusion followed.
Because Seraphina Vaelcrest was already at the bottom of the stairs.
Graceful. Serene. A wine glass in her hand.
She wasn't even within reach of Liliana.
"Wait—why is she screaming?"
"Isn't Lady Seraphina already downstairs?"
"How…?"
Liliana's face went pale. Her eyes darted around, her lips trembling—not with fear, but with disbelief.
No.
She had timed this perfectly.
Seraphina was behind her. She looked before descending. She was supposed to be caught standing right there, close enough to be blamed. How—?
What no one knew was that just moments earlier, time had stopped.
Seraphina had frozen it, descended the stairs in eerie stillness, and waited at the bottom, composed as ever, before time resumed around her.
The trap had failed before it even began.
"Is everything alright, Lady Liliana?" Seraphina asked, lifting her gaze with a delicate smile. "You look quite shaken."
Liliana's mouth opened, but no words came. Her wide eyes flicked to the crowd—watching, doubting.
"Perhaps… you imagined something?" Seraphina added gently, her voice lined with thorns. "It happens."
And just like that, the whispers turned on Liliana.
Seraphina stood tall—elegant, untouched, and victorious.
She didn't need to fight.
She had rewritten the scene.
Gasps still hung in the air from Liliana D'Artois' failed accusation when she abruptly turned, tears pooling in her eyes as she rushed toward a tall figure entering the ballroom.
> "Your Highness—!" she cried out.
Caelum Everhart, Crown Prince of the Empire, strode in with the radiance of a fairytale hero… and the judgment of a blind fool.
Liliana threw herself into his arms like a damsel in distress.
"She… she tried to push me. She's always been cruel to me—Seraphina's evil! She's pretending to be good but she's manipulating everyone!"
The prince's expression hardened instantly. Without hesitation, he turned to Seraphina, fury in his eyes.
> "You vile woman. Still pretending? How dare you hurt someone as kind as Lady Liliana!" he barked, his voice booming through the hall.
All eyes turned again—watching, judging.
> "You've fooled people long enough. You're cunning… wicked!" he spat, marching toward her.
Then, without warning, he raised his hand—
But time stopped.
The world froze in place. Music cut off mid-note. Movement halted.
And Seraphina stood there… silent.
Her eyes cold, sharp as a blade.
She raised her hand—then slapped Caelum Everhart across the face. The sound cracked through frozen time, satisfying and sharp.
Then, she stepped slightly aside—just far enough for his intended slap to miss her completely.
With a flick of her fingers, time began to move again.
—And then the ballroom gasped again.
Because suddenly…
Caelum's hand swiped through empty air.
And his own face bore a red mark—a perfect slap-shaped welt blooming across his cheek.
"W-What just happened?!"
"Did… she dodge that? When did she—?"
"Why is he slapped!?"
Seraphina stood calmly, eyes half-lidded with boredom.
"Your Highness," she said coldly, "if you raise your hand so carelessly again, next time I won't be so gentle."
Caelum stared at her, stunned—his pride wounded, his cheek burning.
He didn't know it yet…
But he had just made an enemy of the wrong girl.
But amidst the sea of gasps and whispered disbelief, one man did not blink.
Seated in the shadows near the back of the ballroom, clad in dark velvet and silver embroidery, sat Lord Zephriel Corven, the infamous Duke of Thorns—the Empire's most dangerous noble, and the rumored villain of the prophecy.
A man blessed—or cursed—with an affinity for dark magic so potent that even high-ranking mages feared to speak his name aloud.
His gloved hands remained still on the arms of his seat, and his sharp, crimson-tinged eyes were the only part of him that moved.
And those eyes had followed Seraphina.
He felt the shift in magic. The sudden fracture in time itself. A ripple in the natural flow that no one else noticed.
Everyone else blinked, unaware.
But Zephriel saw everything.
He watched her freeze time… slap the Crown Prince… step aside.
And then resume reality like a goddess pulling strings behind a curtain.
Interesting… Very interesting indeed.
He couldn't move—the binding sigils hidden on his cuffs and the emperor's seal restricted his magic and motion in public.
But even without casting a single spell, he could still see.
And what he saw… was delightful.
She has time magic. The rarest, most dangerous form…
And yet, no one else even noticed.
His lips curled faintly into something between amusement and hunger.
"Perhaps this little duchess isn't as boring as the rest of them.
For the first time in years, Zephriel Corven took interest in someone.
And it wasn't fear that twisted in his chest.
It was fascination.