The chains bit into her wrists like the jaws of some hungry beast. Maybe they were. After weeks in the dungeon, Selene Verlane had started imagining things: whispers in the iron, eyes in the wood, breath in the stone.
Or maybe the whole world was cursed.
The sun was wrong. Too bright. Too clean.
It shouldn't shine on a day like this.
They dragged her up the wooden steps, one bruised ankle at a time. Her once-silver gown, now a ragged gray crusted with dirt, ash, and dried blood, caught under her boots. She stumbled, and a soldier behind her grunted, yanking her upright by the chains.
She would not give them the satisfaction of breaking.
And they called her a snake.
"The Silver Serpent!"
"Witch!"
"Hang her high!"
She didn't look at them.
She already knew their faces: courtiers who had once bowed, noblemen who had once sworn to protect her and kissed her hand at banquets, women who once laughed at her jokes.
They had praised her beauty, her wit, her cleverness…
Now they howled for her death because it was easier than remembering their sins.
Familiar faces turned strange in the frenzy: courtiers who had once bowed, noblemen who had once sworn to protect her, women who had whispered envy behind their fans. Now their mouths were wide and red, their throats raw with hatred.
Selene kept walking.
Her black hair hung in wild, matted strands down her back, like night itself clinging to her shoulders. Her lips were cracked, one eye swollen. And yet her chin stayed lifted. Her spine is a blade.
If she was going to die, she would die standing.
At the top of the gallows, the executioner waited. Steel mask shaped like a crow. Theatrics, as if her death needed a stage.
A herald stepped forward and unrolled a parchment.
"Selene Verlane, first and last daughter of House Verlane, convicted of high treason, attempted regicide, consorting with cursed magic, and seduction of the Crown Prince."
The crowd erupted before he even finished.
Selene's fingers twitched against the iron. No trial. No defense. No truth.
And the prince? He didn't even bother to watch.
Figures.
Then, footsteps. Slow. Heavy. She didn't have to turn to know who they belonged to.
Cassian Viremont. The Black Duke.
He didn't walk, he glided. Tall, composed, his black-and-silver cloak trailing like a shadow with intent. His pale face, cut from ice and marble, betrayed nothing. His eyes were colder than winter.
He stopped at the edge of the platform. Arms folded. Silent.
The crowd dimmed to a low murmur. His presence always did that.
Finally, Selene turned her head and met his gaze. He didn't blink. Didn't speak. No anger, no pity. Just stillness, like she was already gone.
Fine.
Let them watch. Let them see how a serpent dies.
The crow-masked man spoke, voice like gravel.
"Any last words, Lady Verlane?"
Selene smiled.
Not sweet. Not sad. Sharp. Like a knife leaving its sheath.
Then she spat blood onto his boots.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The rope slipped over her neck, and the wood creaked beneath her. One heartbeat left.
She spent it looking at the sky. Blue. Beautiful. How dare it be so beautiful?
The trapdoor opened.
No pain. Not really.
There was a sound, a crack, a scream, or thunder. Then velvet-darkness. Warm. Infinite.
Nothing.
Then, air.
A gasp tore through her lungs like she'd been underwater for hours. Her back arched.
Her fingers clawed at nothing.
A bed. Soft. Warm.
She wasn't dead. And… she wasn't old?
She looked up, and a face stared back. Hers, in the mirror across the room.
Selene stumbled out of bed, bare feet meeting cold marble.
Her hands flew to her neck.Nothing.Just soft skin, alive and whole.
Her eyes darted to the calendar on the wall.
The date burned into her mind.Her throat went dry.
Exactly one year before her death.
A knock at the door.Talia's voice, gentle and oblivious:
"Milady? If you don't get up soon, you'll be late for the Crown Prince's birthday banquet!"
Selene froze.
That banquet.The first move in the game that had ended with a rope.
Her breath trembled, but her eyes were sharp now.The serpent had returned.