Chapter Two — The Crown Falls
The sun rose in shades of crimson that morning — as if even the heavens were painted in blood.
By noon, the plaza outside Elaris Palace was filled with thousands.
Cameras hovered in the air like mechanical vultures, broadcasting the royal spectacle across every screen in the empire.
The Execution of Princess Lyra of Elaris.
It was supposed to be justice.
But everyone who mattered knew it was theatre.
Lyra stood on the marble platform in her final gown — a pale ivory dress the Queen had chosen for her. It shimmered like purity, a cruel contrast to the word traitor glowing behind her on the holographic screen.
Chains wrapped around her wrists, delicate as jewelry. Even now, they couldn't resist dressing her destruction in luxury.
A hush spread through the crowd as the royal family appeared on the balcony.
Queen Seraphine stood tall, her expression carved from glass. Beside her, Princess Callista wore black lace — mourning for the sister she had destroyed.
The Royal Chancellor stepped forward, his voice amplified through the plaza.
"By the decree of the Elaris Council and the will of the Queen, Princess Lyra Seraphine Vayne of House Elaris is found guilty of treason and conspiracy against the crown."
The crowd murmured. Some gasped. Some cheered.
Lyra lifted her chin. Cameras zoomed in on her face — no tears, no tremor. Only the regal poise of a woman who refused to beg.
Her eyes found her mother's.
"Tell them the truth," she whispered — though the microphone caught every word. "Tell them this is your ambition, not justice."
The Queen didn't move. Her silence was the verdict.
Callista smirked faintly. The crowd mistook it for grief.
Lyra laughed softly, the sound breaking through the tension like shattered crystal.
"So this is how queens protect their thrones," she said. "By killing their daughters."
The Chancellor barked, "Silence!"
But it was too late. The empire had heard her. The rebellion of truth, spoken through poisoned air.
The Queen finally spoke.
"Lyra," she said, voice calm as steel, "you were my greatest pride. And now, you are my greatest shame."
Lyra's heart clenched, but she forced a smile — a perfect, regal smile.
"You'll remember that shame when the people see what you've done."
The signal was given.
Guards moved closer. The executioner — a machine of gleaming chrome — extended an injector filled with pale blue liquid. Death in the form of serenity.
The crowd leaned forward.
The cameras zoomed in.
Lyra looked once more at the world that had betrayed her — the glittering city skyline, the banners waving with her family's crest, the faces that once cheered her parades.
And then she turned her gaze to the lens — directly into the broadcast feed.
"If there's a heaven," she said softly, "let it close its gates to all of you."
The needle pierced her arm.
Cold spread through her veins like winter reclaiming a garden.
Her heartbeat slowed.
The world began to blur.
She saw her mother's face tilt slightly — not with sorrow, but relief.
Callista's lips curved upward.
The crowd roared.
And the last thing Lyra heard before the darkness took her was the sound of thunder splitting the sky.
---
Silence.
Then — wind.
Soft. Distant.
Her eyes snapped open.
She was lying in her bed.
Not a marble platform. Not chains. Silk sheets.
Her bedroom ceiling glowed with the gentle light of dawn — the same pink hue she hadn't seen since before the scandal.
Her heart pounded. She sat up abruptly, gasping.
Everything was wrong.
Her body. Her room. The air.
The mirror across the room reflected her — but not as the condemned princess. She was younger. Softer. Alive.
She stumbled to her vanity and stared.
No bruises from shackles. No dark circles from nights of interrogation.
The date blinked on her phone. Three years before the execution.
Her engagement announcement week.
Her fingers trembled over the glass screen. She scrolled through the news feed — nothing. No betrayal. No scandal. The world hadn't yet destroyed her.
Lyra sank into her chair, trying to breathe. "This isn't possible," she whispered.
But as the first rush of disbelief faded, a sharper thought bloomed — cold, thrilling, dangerous.
She was alive.
And she knew everything.
Every lie. Every secret. Every name that betrayed her.
The walls of her room reflected the soft, innocent blush of her old life — the one she'd once thought was love. Now, it felt like the setting for a game she already knew how to win.
Slowly, she rose.
Walked to the balcony.
The city stretched beneath her — vibrant, oblivious, and doomed.
She smiled, the kind of smile that could slice through glass.
> "This time," she whispered, "they'll learn what true royalty looks like."
Far below, the palace bell chimed for morning prayers.
Lyra closed her eyes, feeling the wind play with her hair — the same wind that had once carried the whispers of her downfall.
Now it carried her promise.
The crown had killed her once.
Now, it would kneel.
---
"They executed a princess. They resurrected a storm."