The scent of burning pitch is far worse than the fire itself.
It clings to the back of your throat—thick, metallic, heavy with sulfur and the sickening sweetness of boiling oil.
The smoke rose in choking black ribbons through the iron grating of the scaffold, blinding me as the afternoon sky turned the color of bruised plums.
Below, the plaza was an ocean of screaming faces.
Tens of thousands of imperial citizens, waving rags, hurling rotten produce, shrieking until their throats bled.
“Burn the witch!”
“Die for Lady Elena!”
“Traitor! Monster! Demon!”
I didn’t scream.
A villainess does not grant sheep the satisfaction of her agony.
Standing at the center of the pyre, iron chains biting deep into my wrists, I watched the royal balcony.
Prince Adrian stood there in gleaming platinum armor, his arm wrapped around Elena Valmont.
Elena—pure, saintly, tearful—buried her face in his chest, unable to watch the violent spectacle.
Adrian squeezed her shoulder, his jaw set in righteous satisfaction.
He didn’t look at me like a man executing his former fiancée.
He looked at me like a gardener pulling a weed.
The executioner lowered the torch.
The pitch ignited with a deafening roar.
The heat hit me first, a wall of pure agony that charred the silk skirts of my crimson gown in seconds.
Skin bubbled, hair turned to ash and pain beyond human comprehension tore through my nerves, yet through the red haze, my eyes remained fixed on the sky.
Is this my purpose?
I screamed inwardly as my lungs filled with fire.
Was my entire life—every slap, every plot, every drop of blood—just a violent footstool for your saint to step on?
The wood collapsed beneath me.
I fell into the inferno, and the world vanished into blinding white silence.
Death did not bring peace.
It brought the screaming noise of a city that was not mine.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
I gasped, throwing my eyes open.
No flames.
No iron chains.
No scent of burning flesh.
I lay in a narrow bed inside a blindingly white room, plastic tubes snaking into the veins of my arm.
Above me, a flat glass box mounted on the wall hummed, flashing colorful moving images of towering metal monoliths and carriages that moved without horses.
A woman in short, pale blue garments rushed to my side, her voice frantic as she checked the strange ticking instruments.
In that world, I had no title.
I was not Lady Seraphina, daughter of the Duke of Ashbourne.
I was an orphan, living in a damp, gray city built of asphalt and glass.
I lived twenty-two years in that strange, peaceful reality.
I ate cold meals out of plastic containers, rode beneath the earth in thunderous iron snakes, and studied in dimly lit libraries until my eyes burned.
I thought my first life—the fire, the prince, the execution—was merely an agonizing nightmare, a childhood delirium my mind had constructed to cope with trauma.
Until the rainy afternoon I stepped into a crowded shop filled with thousands of paper volumes.
My hand had reached out absentmindedly, pulling a polished book from the shelf.
The gilded lettering across the leather spine caught the harsh halogen light: The Crown’s Absolute Grace.
I opened it.
Page 12: “Lady Seraphina Ashbourne tossed her head, her golden hair catching the light like spun coin as she glared at the humble Baron’s daughter…”
Page 140: “Prince Adrian drew his sword, stepping between the terrified Elena and the venomous villainess…”
Page 380: “As the flames consumed the malicious Seraphina, the kingdom finally breathed a sigh of relief. Peace had returned.”
The paper slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the wooden floorboards with a dull thud.
Every insult I had ever uttered.
Every poison I had brewed.
Every tear Elena had cried.
It was all printed here, bound neatly in cardboard, sold for fifteen silver coins to bored strangers seeking cheap entertainment.
My pain wasn’t real.
My hatred wasn’t real.
I wasn’t a human being who had lived and bled; I was a plot device.
A manufactured obstacle created solely to make a saintly heroine look divine when she crushed me under her heel.
A hysterical, broken laugh tore from my throat.
I stumbled out of the shop into the pouring rain, the cold water soaking through my fabric shoes.
The world spun around me—the flashing lights, the roar of rain, the crushing realization of my own artificial existence.
I didn’t hear the screeching metal.
I didn’t see the massive iron carriage hurtling toward me through the storm.
There was only a violent shock, the sickening crunch of bone, and the sensation of being thrown into the air before the darkness swallowed me a second time.
I bolted upright, my chest heaving as I clawed at my throat.
“Haaah… ah…!”
Cold air filled my lungs.
No smoke.
No rain.
I scrambled backward, my hands tangling in heavy silk sheets.
Sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows, casting ruby and violet diamonds across a sprawling bed chamber.
The air smelled of crushed damask roses and expensive beeswax polish.
Breathing heavily, I swung my legs out of bed and rushed toward the tall silver mirror in the corner.
The woman staring back at me did not have pale, tired skin or short black hair.
She wore a nightgown of heavy lace.
Golden hair tumbled over her shoulders in wild, luxurious waves.
Sharp, violet eyes flared with raw, terrifying life.
I touched my neck—smooth, soft, untouched by rope or flame.
Six months.
I was standing in Ashbourne Manor, precisely six months before my public execution.
A tremor started in my hands, spreading up my arms until my entire body shook.
But it wasn’t fear.
It was something far colder.
Far darker.
The original Seraphina had been foolish.
She had let her jealousy rule her, throwing tantrums and playing right into the script’s hands until she was dragged to the stake.
I turned away from the mirror, walking slowly toward the mahogany desk where my daily journal lay open.
I picked up the quill, dipping it into black ink.
If this world thinks it can burn me twice to give their precious heroine a happy ending, it is mistaken.
I won’t play the repentant fool.
I won’t beg for Adrian’s love, and I won’t bow my head to destiny.
If the story demands a villainess, I will give them one—and I will tear this entire scripted realm down to its foundations.
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