"At last."
The words, a ragged whisper, escaped Katriana's lips with the final, shuddering release of her breath. They mingled with the acrid stench of smoke and ash that clung to the air, thick and cloying. She pressed the dying ember of her last cigar, a fragile, glowing defiance, against the hilt of a sword plunged deep into the scorched marble. A tendril of smoke, grey and ephemeral, curled upwards, mirroring the dying hope within her. It ascended towards what remained of the sky… a canvas once painted in hues of serene blue, now nothing but a bleeding wound of angry orange, choked by soot, and glowing with the sickly pallor of an infection.
The once-glorious Empire of Kroux, a monument to golden dreams, lay prostrate and ruined, gasping beneath a shroud of rubble. Its gilded domes, once reaching for the heavens, were now cracked open like the desiccated shells of rotten eggs, spewing forth plumes of black smoke from their desecrated interiors. Statues, their stoic faces marred by streaks of grime, appeared to weep from their hollow eyes. Towers, grand and imposing, collapsed in slow, crumbling bows, each descent a profound, somber genuflection to the last living villain.
Katriana, daughter of the mighty Duke Devonshire, the final, tormented child of a bloodline cursed by fate, stood amidst the ravaged grandeur of the palace courtyard. Her dress, once a pristine white, now clung to her like a second skin, heavy with the grim tapestry of blood, grime, and the cold sweat of despair. Her knees, though trembling violently, refused to buckle. Not yet. Not when one last, desperate command remained etched upon her soul.
She staggered forward, each step a testament to a will unyielding, her boots crunching over the grim mosaic of scattered bones and splintered swords. The inferno beckoned, its heat a visible force, guiding her to the very heart of the conflagration. There, amidst the writhing flames, lay a beast of myth and terror, its magnificent scales blackened and charred, its once-proud wings torn and mangled, its eyes pools of unimaginable pain.
Her dragon.
Once a symbol of unbridled majesty, now reduced to a pitiful, broken creature.
Its intelligent, suffering eyes met hers, a silent plea echoing in their depths. It was the gaze of a loyal hound, moments before the final, brutal kick from its master.
"Do it," she rasped, her voice raw and hoarse, a whisper against the roaring flames. "Burn it. Burn us. Burn everything."
The dragon let out a shriek, a sound so agonizing it ripped through the air like a thousand violin bows dragged across rusted metal. Its immense wings, quivering with agony, hesitated, a flicker of resistance in its pain-racked form.
"BURN!" she repeated, her voice rising to a fractured scream, sharp and cutting like a whip.
And it obeyed.
The flames, as if fueled by her command, roared to a terrifying crescendo. They consumed the opulent throne room, the blood-stained corridors where so many had fallen, the portraits of long-dead monarchs whose painted eyes seemed to watch in silent judgment, and the cursed bed she once slept in.
Katriana, her figure a silhouette against the inferno, stepped into the hungry blaze, unflinching. Her form, defiant to the last, dissolved into the consuming fire. Skin, bone, vengeance… all became one with the scorching heat, reduced to nothingness.
And that, in its stark, brutal truth, was how she died.
Alone.
Unloved.
Without a shred of redemption.
There were no soft whispers from a lover's lips, no tearful last-minute confessions of affection. Only the searing heat, the bitter taste of hatred, and the nauseating scent of her own charred flesh.
….
….
WAIT.
Was that… truly the end of her arc?
Seriously?
It actually ended like that?
I slammed the novel shut, the sound echoing hollowly in the quiet of my tiny apartment. My hands trembled, a nervous tremor that spread through my entire being, and my heart beat a frantic, erratic rhythm, like a broken drum pounding against my ribs. I stared at the final line of the book, emblazoned on the page, for what felt like an eternity, the words seared into my mind.
And so, the villainess met her end, a dark star consumed by the supernova of her own hatred. Her vengeance, born of fury, paved the way for the chosen Saintess to ascend as the new Empress. By her side stood Katriana's former husband, the Emperor, his life rekindled by the Saintess's miraculous divine power after he had faced the terrifying storm of Katriana's rage. Like phoenixes from the pyre, they emerged from the devastation, imbued with grace, unwavering love, and a profound capacity for forgiveness. Together, they painstakingly forged a new empire from the dust and despair, crafting a future where joy could finally blossom. And within its rebuilt walls, happiness reigned eternal.
"What the actual hell?"
A choked sound, a mixture of disbelief and utter fury, escaped my throat. I hurled the novel across the cramped expanse of my apartment. It collided with the wall with a remarkably satisfying thud, the impact shaking the cheap plaster, before it dropped with a defeated sigh behind the worn couch, landing like the piece of garbage it was.
"How dare you!" I hissed, my voice low and venomous.
The city outside my window, indifferent to my turmoil, didn't flinch.
Manhattan's formidable skyline stood tall and smug against the backdrop of the inky night fog, its myriad lights blinking like indifferent stars, utterly oblivious to the tempest raging within me. My wine glass, a silent confidante, stood empty on the coffee table. My soul, a hollow cavern, felt just as barren.
I curled up on my couch, pulling a faded throw pillow to my chest, clutching it as if it were the last tangible link to a world that had just shattered. The story, in its bleak, unyielding finality, haunted me. It had no right to inflict such profound emotional damage. I mean, it was just pulp fiction, right? The kind with dramatic, over-the-top titles and brooding men adorned with mysterious scars, their faces etched with untold sorrows.
But Katriana… Katriana was different.
She wasn't some vapid, ditzy noble girl, blindly infatuated with the male lead, destined for a saccharine happily ever after. She was forged from steel and sorrow. She was the embodiment of raw rage and fragile elegance, her very being wrapped in layers of trauma and heartaches. And the author, that cruel, heartless motherfucker, had simply… tossed her into a roaring bonfire, her purpose seemingly fulfilled.
What kind of sadistic bastard could conceive of such an ending?
I should have known. I should have known the moment my eyes landed on the book.
It had been sitting there, tucked away on the bottom shelf of an old, dusty bookstore, a place that defied all logic and should not have existed in the heart of the bustling city. It was wedged between a long-closed nail salon, its windows opaque with grime, and a psychic's parlor, offering dubious crystal readings and highly probable tax fraud. The shop itself had no name, no grand marquee to announce its presence, just a tarnished brass bell above the door that jingled mournfully and the overwhelming, pervasive smell of moldy pages and forgotten dreams.
The cover was starkly simple. CITRA. That was all. No flowery subtitle, no enticing A Tale of Betrayal and Passion or some shit, no promises of sweeping romance. Just the heroine's name.
I should have run. I should have turned on my heel and fled the moment I felt the strange, magnetic pull of its unassuming cover. But I didn't.
I bought it.
I read it.
And in doing so, I utterly destroyed my own emotional stability.
So, of course, the next day, like the complete idiot I apparently was, I found myself drawn back. I needed to know. I needed to see the name of the author who had penned that nightmare fuel, who had ripped Katriana's life to shreds. I craved answers. Perhaps even vengeance, a small, futile act against the literary injustice.
But when I got there… the building was gone.
I stood at the same downtown corner, the familiar street stretching before me, the same flickering lamppost casting an eerie glow, like a cliché from a low-budget horror movie. But where the quaint, mysterious bookstore had stood the day before, there was nothing but a stark, unyielding brick wall and an old fire hydrant, weeping rust onto the cracked pavement.
"What the hell…?" My voice was barely a whisper, a question directed at the indifferent cityscape.
I turned in slow, confused circles, my gaze sweeping the familiar street signs, checking the GPS on my phone, even meticulously retracing my steps from the subway. Nothing. It was as if the store had never existed, a phantom memory born from a fever dream.
I stood there for a moment longer, a profound sense of confusion settling over me, an unsettling disquiet in the pit of my stomach. Then the wind picked up, a sudden, unnatural gust that felt out of place in the urban sprawl. It was cold, damp, and whistled past my ear like a chilling breath down my neck.
Then came the screech of tires, a raw, tearing sound that ripped through the sudden silence.
BMW.
Shit hits me like a motherfucker.
I turned too late.
Everything went white.
And then… nothing.
No searing pain, no blinding light, no blare of sirens.
Just an profound, absolute silence.
Until I opened my eyes.
And found myself in hell.
Or at least, what certainly felt like it.
Except this particular hell had a butler.
**
I was lying on a stone floor, one so ridiculously shiny it gleamed with an almost unnatural polish. Its surface reflected my horrified face back at me, a distorted, wide-eyed image of pure panic. My arms felt impossibly thinner, almost skeletal. My hair… my hair was red. Not the rich, deep wine-red of a Cabernet, nor the warm, inviting mahogany. But a startling, vibrant fire-engine red, the kind that blazes fiercely under the midday sun.
And I was wearing a maid uniform.
A real one. A pristine, frilly apron tied neatly over a stiff black dress. Black stockings, pulled taut against my calves. And shoes that pinched, already a source of exquisite discomfort.
My head spun, a dizzying maelstrom of confusion and disbelief. My body was not my own. My voice, when I tried to speak, felt alien, a stranger's utterance. My name… my name was not mine either.
Yet, despite the surreal, disorienting transformation, I knew where I was. I knew who I was, or rather, who I was now meant to be.
Because from the distant room, a piercing shriek echoed through the thick stone walls. The voice of a noblewoman, high-pitched and laced with hysteria. The voice of the Duke's wife. The very woman who, for one-fourth of the novel, had systematically tormented the poor, sweet gardener's daughter…
The heroine's mother.
Which meant…
"OMFG."
I scrambled to my feet, a fresh wave of panic fizzing through my chest, like champagne bubbles gone sour.
"No. No, no, no."
I was inside the book.
Inside that trashy, devastating, emotionally damaging novel.
And not as the heroine.
Not as the villain.
Not as the side character.
Not even a background character.
But as a random maid. In the Duke's estate. The very same estate where Katriana was born, where her life began its tragic trajectory. The very same estate where her mother had met her untimely, brutal end.
I could hear the heroine's mother sobbing, her cries muffled by the stone walls, a raw sound of grief and terror. I could hear the Duchess, her laughter a chilling, lunatic cackle, echoing through the corridors. And in the garden, somewhere just out of my sight, I knew, with a horrifying certainty, that the young Katriana was watching it all from a window. Silent. Hollow-eyed. Already doomed by the narrative that bound her.
"What kind of sick joke is this?" I whispered, the words catching in my throat.
I touched my face, my fingers tracing the unfamiliar contours. I touched the cold, polished stone floor beneath my feet. It was real. Tangibly, terrifyingly real.
And I was so, so screwed.
Was this punishment? For criticizing the author, for mocking a book with far too many clichés and not nearly enough happiness? Was this my penance, my purgatory for literary blasphemy?
I wasn't sure. The answers remained elusive, swallowed by the bewildering reality of my new existence.
All I knew, with an unsettling clarity, was that I had died.
And woke up in fiction.
And that was not even the worst part.
The worst part?
I knew exactly how this story ends.
Katriana dies.
And everyone else gets their happy ending.
Well. Not if I can help it.
I was going to change the plot.
Even if it killed me again.
And knowing this novel?
It probably would.