ELARA'S POV
We're halfway to the throne room when Theron stops dead.
"Wait." His eyes go distant—that look he gets when he's seeing the future. "Don't go through that door."
"Why not?" Lyra asks from behind us.
"Because in three seconds, twelve guards will come through it. And they're not here to escort us to the wedding."
Three seconds later, the door crashes open.
Guards pour through, weapons drawn.
"There!" the captain shouts. "The escaped prisoner and her accomplices! Seize them!"
"Run!" Theron shoves us back down the corridor.
We sprint through the palace, guards thundering behind us. Lyra is fast, but she's exhausted from her captivity. She stumbles, and I catch her.
"I can't—" she gasps. "Go without me—"
"Absolutely not." I pull her arm over my shoulder. "We're a package deal now."
Theron leads us through a series of turns I don't recognize, even with my recovered memories. "Where are we going?" I pant.
"Somewhere the Queen will never think to look." He yanks open a door marked 'Storage' and pushes us inside.
It's not a storage room.
It's a hidden library—small, dusty, filled with books that look ancient and forbidden.
"Your secret hideout?" I ask, helping Lyra sit.
"Our secret hideout." Theron locks the door and casts a silence spell. "You found it three years ago. We used to study here when we wanted privacy."
I look around, and fragments of memory surface: laughing with Theron over a ridiculous magical theory, falling asleep on his shoulder while reading, stealing kisses between research sessions.
"I loved this place," I whisper.
"You loved any place with books." He's already pulling volumes from shelves, searching for something. "Now we need to use what you learned here. Because the Queen is about to discover that Serath's plan failed, and when she does—"
"She'll come for us herself," I finish.
"Exactly." He finds what he's looking for—a large leather-bound book. "This is your original research journal. The complete version, not the edited copy in the Sanguine Vaults. You hid it here because you didn't trust anyone else with it."
I take the journal reverently. My own handwriting covers every page—notes, diagrams, theories about memory magic and curse-breaking.
"Look at the final entry," Theron urges.
I flip to the last page, dated three years ago. The day before my first wedding.
Final log: I've discovered the truth. The Queen murdered my mother. I have proof—a letter in Mother's own handwriting, sealed with blood-magic to preserve authenticity. She knew Meridian would kill her. She wrote it all down. The poison. The conspiracy. Everything.
I'm going to expose Meridian tomorrow at the council meeting. Theron will help me present the evidence. By this time tomorrow, my mother's killer will face justice.
But if something goes wrong—if Meridian strikes first—I've taken precautions. Seven memory anchors. One letter of truth. And a failsafe built into my own magic that will activate if I'm cursed.
The failsafe is this: every time I'm reset, I become slightly more resistant to the next reset. Like building immunity to poison. By the seventh reset, I should be able to break through completely.
Seven resets. Seven husbands. Seven chances to wake up and fight back.
If you're reading this, Future Me, then we're on the seventh cycle. This is it. The final chance.
Don't waste it.
—Elara Ashenmere, Princess and Heir
I close the journal, tears streaming down my face.
"I planned this," I say, awed and horrified. "I knew they'd curse me. So I built a way out."
"You were terrifyingly smart," Theron says softly. "You still are."
"But the six husbands—" The guilt crashes over me again. "I killed six innocent people because of this plan."
"Not innocent." Theron pulls out another document—a list of names with notes beside each. "Your six husbands were members of the Silent Court. The secret resistance investigating your mother's death. They knew the risks. They volunteered."
"Volunteered?" I stare at him. "To die?"
"To marry you. To try to break your curse from the inside. Each one knew they probably wouldn't survive, but they did it anyway because they believed in you. Believed you were worth saving." He points at the first name. "Lord Marcus Thornfield was your mother's head of security. He watched you grow up. He loved you like a daughter."
The name triggers a memory—vague, distant: a kind man teaching young-me how to defend myself. Stay strong, little princess. The kingdom needs you.
"Lord Sebastian Ashworth was your magic tutor at the Academy. He taught you everything you know about memory spells."
Another flash: an older man with patient eyes, correcting my spellwork. You're not making mistakes, Elara. You're discovering new methods.
Theron continues down the list, and with each name, I remember fragments. These weren't random nobles. They were my teachers, my mother's advisors, my friends. People who loved me enough to die trying to save me.
"They didn't volunteer to die," I realize. "They volunteered to help me wake up."
"Exactly. Each one left you clues during your wedding nights—before the curse activated. Hidden messages, coded warnings, pieces of the puzzle." Theron's voice is thick with emotion. "Lord Ashton, your sixth husband? He carved 'HE KNEW YOUR NAME' on the mirror in his own blood. Because he figured out that remembering your real name was the key to breaking the curse."
"And I killed him for it."
"You had no choice. The curse was too strong then. You weren't ready." He takes my hands. "But Elara? They knew that. They all knew. And they did it anyway because they believed that someday—today—you'd be strong enough to finish what they started."
I think of the six names in my journal. Six people who died so I could live.
"I have to make this count," I whisper. "I have to make their deaths mean something."
"You will." Theron opens my research journal to a marked page. "Because you left yourself one final gift. A spell that will expose the Queen's crimes to everyone simultaneously. A mass truth-revealing enchantment that broadcasts memories directly into people's minds."
I read the spell notes. It's brilliant and dangerous and requires enormous magical power.
"This could kill me," I say.
"It could. But you wrote that it was worth the risk."
"Past me was very brave."
"Present you is braver." He smiles. "You've survived six murders and three years of stolen memories. You can survive this."
Lyra speaks up from where she's been resting. "What about me? What can I do?"
I look at my little sister—sixteen, exhausted, traumatized, but still fighting. "You can be the witness. When I cast this spell, I'll broadcast my memories. My mother's murder. The Queen's conspiracy. Everything. But witnesses make it real. Make it undeniable."
"I can do that," she says firmly.
A bell tolls outside.
Thirty minutes until the wedding.
"We need to get to the throne room," Theron says. "The Queen will be there, expecting a wedding. Instead, we'll give her a trial."
"What if it doesn't work?" I ask. "What if the spell fails?"
"Then we fight. The old-fashioned way. With swords and stubbornness and absolutely terrible planning." He grins. "You know. Our specialty."
I laugh despite everything. "I can't believe I fell in love with you."
"I can't believe you forgot and fell in love with me again." He kisses me quickly. "Come on. Let's go overthrow a queen."
We're about to leave when I notice something odd about my research journal.
There's an eighth entry. After the "final log."
Written in different ink. Shakier handwriting.
Emergency addendum: If you're reading this, something has gone catastrophically wrong. The Queen has a failsafe too. A spell bound to her own life force. If she dies by violence, the spell triggers and kills everyone with Ashenmere blood. Including you. Including Lyra.
You cannot kill the Queen directly. You must make her destroy herself.
I'm sorry I didn't discover this sooner.
—Elara (Sixth Reset, written moments before Ashton's wedding)
My blood runs cold.
"Theron," I say quietly. "We have a problem."
He reads the entry. His face goes pale.
"If we expose the Queen's crimes," he says slowly, "the crowd will demand her execution. Or she'll try to fight, and someone will kill her in the chaos. Either way—"
"Either way, Lyra and I die too." I look at my sister, who's staring at us with wide, frightened eyes.
"There has to be a way around it," Theron insists. "A loophole. Some way to—"
"There isn't." I know it with terrible certainty. "Blood-magic is absolute. The Queen was smart. She made sure that even if I won, I'd lose everything."
Silence.
Then Lyra stands up. "What if the Queen isn't killed by violence? What if she's just... removed?"
"Removed how?" I ask.
"Magic. A banishment spell. Send her somewhere she can't hurt anyone, but she's technically still alive. The failsafe wouldn't trigger." Lyra's eyes are bright with desperate hope. "You studied magic for years, Elara. Can you do that?"
I think through every spell I know. Banishment magic is complex, requires enormous power, and usually needs the target's consent.
Unless...
"The memory spell," I say suddenly. "The one that broadcasts truth. What if I modified it? Instead of just showing memories, I could use it to trap the Queen inside her own worst memories. Her guilt. Her crimes. Lock her in a mental prison of her own making."
"That's not banishment," Theron says. "That's torture."
"It's justice." My voice is hard. "She made me live in a nightmare for three years. Let her experience what she did to others. Forever."
Theron and Lyra exchange glances.
"Can you cast it?" Theron asks. "Do you have enough power?"
I think of the six people who died for me. The anchors I've recovered. The pieces of myself I've reclaimed.
"I have to try."
Another bell. Twenty minutes.
We head for the door, but before we leave, I grab Theron's arm.
"If this goes wrong," I say. "If I don't survive—"
"You will."
"But if I don't. Promise me you'll take care of Lyra. Get her out of the kingdom. Give her a normal life."
"I promise." He cups my face. "But you're going to survive, Elara. And then we're going to have that wedding for real. And you're going to be the most terrifying queen this kingdom has ever seen. Deal?"
"Deal."
We step into the corridor—
And walk straight into Queen Meridian.
She's alone. No guards. Just her and a smile that promises death.
"Hello, niece," she says pleasantly. "Going somewhere?"
Behind her, the corridor seals with blood-magic. We're trapped.
"I knew Serath's plan would fail," the Queen continues. "My dear chancellor was always too ambitious for her own good. So I prepared a backup plan." She raises her hand, and magic—dark, ancient, terrible—swirls around her fingers. "You want to broadcast truth? Let me show you a truth, little Elara. Your mother didn't die from my poison. She died from yours."
"What?" I breathe.
"The poison in her wine? You put it there. I merely suggested it. Whispered the idea while you slept. You killed your own mother, my dear. And I made you forget."
The world tilts.
No.
She's lying.
She has to be lying.
But deep in my recovered memories, I see it: a younger me, sleepwalking, pouring something into Mother's wine, tears streaming down my sleeping face.
"No," I whisper.
"Oh yes." The Queen's smile is vicious. "So go ahead. Broadcast your 'truth.' Let the kingdom see that their beloved princess is a matricide. Let's see who they crown after that."
She vanishes in a burst of light.
We're left standing in the corridor, and my entire world is crumbling.
I killed my mother.
I killed my mother.
"Elara—" Theron starts.
"Don't." I back away from him. From Lyra. From everything. "Don't touch me. Don't—I'm a monster. I've always been a monster—"
"You were a child being controlled by blood-magic!" Theron grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. "The Queen made you do it! Just like she made you kill your husbands! You're not responsible!"
"Aren't I?" I'm sobbing now. "How many people have died because of me? How many more will die if I try to take the throne? Maybe—maybe the Queen was right to curse me. Maybe I deserve—"
"STOP." Lyra's voice cuts through my spiral. She stands between me and Theron, fierce despite her size. "You listen to me, Elara Ashenmere. You are not a monster. You are a survivor. And if the Queen made you hurt people, that's on HER, not you. Now pull yourself together, because in fifteen minutes, we're walking into that throne room, and we're ending this. Got it?"
I stare at my little sister—when did she get so strong?—and something inside me steadies.
"Got it," I whisper.
"Good." Lyra takes my hand. "Now let's go kill a queen. Metaphorically."
We run for the throne room, and I push down the horror, the guilt, the self-hatred.
Later. I'll deal with it later.
Right now, I have a kingdom to save.