The maid screamed.
Loud. Dramatic. As if she were the one who woke up from a fire that had eaten her alive.
> "M-my lady!? You—you're awake! By the heavens, we thought..."
Thought what?
That she'd stay dead?
That the gods would be kind for once?
She sat up, slow and deliberate, letting the sheets slide off her like silk over a blade. Her hands were smooth. Pale. No burn marks. No rope scars. Not even a bruise.
Three days ago, she had died.
Now, her skin looked untouched.
But something had changed.
Something inside her had shifted.
She swung her legs off the bed, bare feet hitting cold marble.
"Tell my dear stepmother I'll be joining them for breakfast," she said softly, brushing back her hair.
"Ask her to serve something sweet."
---
The dining room was full of ghosts.
Not the dead kind.
The living kind... wearing perfume and smiles, hiding daggers behind their tongues.
Her father didn't look up from his tea.
Her stepmother, draped in silk and smugness, smiled like a fox in a chicken coop.
And across the table… her stepsister.
Still wearing her necklace.
The sapphire one that used to belong to their mother. The one stolen when the guards ransacked her things before the trial.
"Darling," her stepmother said, lips stretched tight. "You gave us quite a scare. Raving in your fever like that… nonsense about demons and fire. What a nightmare."
She took her seat. Calm. Pretty. Deadly.
"Yes," she agreed. "A nightmare."
She spooned honey into her tea.
Watched it swirl. Gold and thick, like blood in water.
"In it… I was tied to a stake."
"And everyone I loved was clapping."
Silence.
Her stepsister laughed too loudly.
"You really are dramatic," she said. "Maybe it's the stress. Don't worry. We'll find you a nice nobleman to marry. Fix you right up."
Like the last one?
She smiled. Tilted her head.
"You're right. I was being silly."
She reached for the teacup.
But as her fingers brushed porcelain—
Crack.
It shattered. Not fell. Not slipped.
It exploded in a burst of heat, shards slicing into the tablecloth.
The maid gasped. Her father finally looked up.
"Oops," she said, voice light. "Still a bit feverish."
Blood trickled down her finger. Just a nick.
But the heat… it was still there.
Beneath her skin. Coiled. Breathing.
What was that?
No one dared speak. Not even her stepmother.
She stood up. Calm. Graceful. Every movement controlled.
> "I think I'll take a walk," she said. "The air in here feels… suffocating."
And she left them in silence, shattered porcelain and all.
---
The hallway was empty. Sunlight filtered through stained glass like blood on stone.
Her collarbone throbbed.
She pulled down the edge of her dress.
The Mark was glowing. Dimly. Pulsing like it was alive.
And then...
The voice.
Low. Velvet. Dangerous.
"Did you like that little spark?"
She froze.
"I gave you power, darling. Use it. Or next time....."
"I'll burn your whole house down."
She didn't flinch.
"Is that a threat?" she whispered.
"No."
"It's a promise."