The throne room was silent.
No cheers from the nobles who once praised her beauty.
No whispers from the courtiers who used to flatter her power.
Only the sound of her own breathing — shallow, ragged, and laced with the metallic taste of blood.
Queen Serenya knelt on the cold marble floor, her wrists bound in iron shackles. The once-pristine gown of crimson silk clung to her body in tatters, its hem soaked with grime and ash. Beside her, the golden crown of Elvara lay shattered into pieces, each shard catching the pale morning light like broken stars.
At the end of the grand hall, upon the throne that had once been hers, sat King Alderic. Her husband. The man she had loved, defended, and sacrificed everything for.
Now, his gaze held no warmth, only the cold gleam of triumph.
"Serenya of Elvara," he began, voice dripping with mockery, "you are hereby stripped of your title, your crown, and your life. For treason against the crown you swore to protect."
A ripple of satisfaction passed through the court. They were wolves, all of them — and today, they had brought down the lioness.
Her lips curled into the faintest of smiles. Treason? No… her only crime had been loyalty — to the wrong man.
From the corner of her vision, she saw them bring in the executioner. The man's face was hidden beneath a steel mask, his black axe gleaming under the light of the stained glass windows. The sound of his boots striking the marble echoed in the vast chamber.
The king rose from the throne and descended the steps slowly, each movement deliberate, as though savoring her defeat.
"I should thank you," he murmured when he reached her. "If not for your foolish trust, the kingdom would never have been mine alone."
Serenya lifted her head, meeting his gaze without fear. She had worn this crown. She had led armies into battle. She had bled for this land. And now, the man who once swore to protect her would kill her with a smile.
The executioner's shadow fell over her. The cold edge of the axe hovered above her neck.
Just before the blade fell, she whispered, voice steady and sharp as steel:
"When I return… you'll beg me for death."
The world went black.
—
She gasped, bolting upright.
Her lungs filled with air — sweet, warm, and scented with lilacs.
No marble floor. No iron shackles.
Instead, she was in her old bedchamber — sunlight streaming through cream curtains, the distant sound of bells ringing in the city square.
Her trembling hands clutched the sheets. These were not the hands of a thirty-year-old queen who had fought and bled. These were slender, unscarred, untouched by war.
She stumbled to the polished mirror across the room.
The reflection staring back at her nearly stole her breath.
Eighteen. She was eighteen again.
Her hair, once dulled by years of battle, was now a shining cascade of chestnut silk. Her eyes, hardened by betrayal in her previous life, were bright and unlined.
On the writing desk by the window lay a sealed letter — the royal crest pressed in scarlet wax.
Her heart pounded. She remembered this day. The day before her engagement to King Alderic was announced. The first step toward her ruin.
Not this time.
Her fingers tightened into a fist, nails biting into her palm. She would not be the naive girl who smiled at her enemies and called them friends. She would not love a man who would one day betray her.
This time, she would be the one pulling the strings.
And when the right moment came… she would make them all beg for mercy.