The winds howled across the execution platform, cold and unforgiving. Snowflakes danced in the air like mocking ghosts, dusting the stone tiles and settling atop her blood-streaked robes.
Xue Lian knelt beneath the raised dais, her hands bound in rough hemp, her once-glorious jade hairpin shattered at her feet. Her face—though pale and bruised—retained a chilling beauty. One that had once turned heads in the Imperial Court, earned poems from scholars, and jealousy from noble ladies.
Now, not a single person looked at her with compassion.
A crowd had gathered, nobles and commoners alike. Their eyes glittered with a mixture of curiosity, satisfaction, and cruelty. The whispers, sharper than the icy wind, carried through the square:
"That's the wicked Consort Xue. Poisoned the Crown Prince, seduced the Emperor, tried to murder the Empress Dowager."
"She deserves it. Filthy snake. Should've been burned alive, not strangled."
Xue Lian's fingernails dug into her palms. Poisoned the Crown Prince? Murdered the Empress Dowager?
Lies.
All lies.
She had loved Mo Jinhai, the Emperor. Truly, foolishly loved him. She had served with grace, bore his child, obeyed every rule of the inner palace—even the unspoken ones that said: smile when you want to scream, bow when you want to break. And yet, he never truly protected her. Not once.
Even now, he stood above her on the platform in resplendent golden robes, aloof as heaven's judge, his expression carved from jade.
But she saw it.
That flicker of guilt. That momentary twitch at the corner of his lips.
It sickened her.
The Empress Dowager reclined in her palanquin like a cat who'd finally caught her prey. Her thin lips curved in a smug arc. Eunuchs flanked her sides, fanning incense and snow from her sleeves.
And beside her—like a pale flower in winter—stood Xue Yan, her own stepsister. Draped in lavender silks, her hair adorned with plum blossom pins. She looked like innocence made flesh.
Their eyes met.
Xue Yan's gaze softened. She tilted her head, eyes wide and concerned.
Then she smiled.
Soft. Sweet. Victorious.
The wind shrieked.
"Consort Xue Lian," the Imperial Censor bellowed, scroll in hand. "Found guilty of regicide, witchcraft, and treason against the Great Zhou Empire. On this 12th day of the Frost Moon, she is sentenced to death by strangulation. May the Heavens bear witness to this judgment!"
The crowd roared in approval. A tomato was thrown—it struck her shoulder and burst. More followed.
Still kneeling, Xue Lian slowly lifted her head and looked up at the sky.
No stars. No gods. No justice.
Only betrayal.
Her voice cracked but did not tremble. "If the heavens are just… let me return. Let me repay every debt, see every lie rot in the sun. Let me come back, and I will become the blade they all fear."
The noose was pulled taut around her neck.
The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was the Empress Dowager's pleased face, and Xue Yan's dainty hand brushing away a nonexistent tear.
Darkness.
Then—
A sharp gasp tore from her lungs. Her back arched. She clutched at her throat—
No rope. No pain.
Her eyes flew open.
She lay sprawled on a silk-draped bed, drenched in sweat. The air smelled of plum blossoms and sandalwood. Her heart thundered in her chest as her fingers scrambled over her neck.
Smooth. Unscarred.
She blinked wildly, sitting upright. Gold-lattice windows let in winter light. A bronze qilin incense burner puffed lazy smoke near her dressing screen. On the wall hung a phoenix tapestry she remembered hating.
This was…
> "The Xue Manor," she breathed.
Her bedroom. From three years ago.
The day everything changed.
A knock startled her. The door creaked.
"Miss Lian?" A timid voice called. A small maid stepped in, holding a cloak. "Are you unwell? Today's the palace selection, remember? The officials are here…"
Xue Lian stared at her. Ah Mei. The only servant who had cried when she died.
Selection day. The day her name was drawn. The beginning of her downfall.
But this time—she was back.
She wasn't dreaming. Her heart knew this wasn't a fantasy.
She'd been reborn.
She swung her legs over the bed, ignoring Ah Mei's gasp. Her hands no longer bore burn scars. Her skin was soft, untouched by betrayal and prison.
The shock slowly crystallized into something colder. Sharper. Her lips curled.
In her first life, she had begged. Tried to please. Played by the rules. She had thought love could save her.
Now?
She would become the storm they couldn't predict.
Let Mo Jinhai act noble. Let the Empress Dowager scheme. Let Xue Yan bat her lashes like a lamb.
This time, she would not enter the palace as a naïve flower.
She would be the blade.
Ah Mei hesitated. "Should I prepare your hair, Miss?"
Xue Lian took the cloak. Her voice was soft, but her eyes burned. "Yes. Make me beautiful."
Then she added, low enough that only the ghosts could hear:
"More beautiful than the snow. Let the palace tremble when I smile."
She stood tall, wrapped in warmth and vengeance. Her reflection in the bronze mirror showed a young girl of seventeen—but her eyes held storms older than time.
If she must walk into that cursed place again, then let the game begin.
But this time—
She would win.