The crowd was louder than the rain.
Aelira Nyxvale stood on the execution platform with her hands bound behind her back, cold chains biting into her wrists. Mud clung to the hem of her torn gown, once royal blue—now dull and lifeless, just like the kingdom she had given everything to.
"Traitor!"
"Witch!"
"Death to the false princess!"
Their voices blended into a single, ugly roar. She didn't flinch.
She had known this day would come the moment the royal decree was announced—Princess Aelira Nyxvale, guilty of treason and conspiracy against the crown.
Treason.
For advising the king during war.
For negotiating peace.
For saving thousands of lives.
She laughed softly.
If loyalty was treason, then this kingdom deserved to burn.
Aelira lifted her gaze to the high balcony. Her half-brother, Crown Prince Lucien, stood there in pristine white robes, golden crown resting lightly on his head. He did not meet her eyes.
Coward.
Beside him stood her stepmother, the queen, lips curved in satisfaction. It was she who had whispered poison into the king's ears, who had feared Aelira's intelligence more than any enemy army.
The executioner stepped forward.
"Any last words?" he asked, voice rough but not unkind.
Aelira closed her eyes.
She thought of the nights spent studying war maps by candlelight.
The soldiers she sent home alive.
The crown she never wanted—and the power she was never allowed to touch.
"I regret only one thing," she said calmly.
The crowd fell silent.
"I trusted my family."
The blade was raised.
The sky thundered.
And in that final moment—Aelira smiled.
If there is another life waiting for me, she thought, I will never kneel again.
The blade fell.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
She gasped.
Air rushed violently into her lungs, sharp and painful, as if she had been drowning for years. Aelira bolted upright, her body slick with cold sweat, heart hammering wildly in her chest.
She was alive.
No—this wasn't right.
Her hands flew to her neck.
Smooth. Unbroken.
No blood. No pain.
Her breathing slowed as she looked around.
A familiar room greeted her—too familiar.
The ivory canopy bed. The pale blue curtains embroidered with silver thread. The faint scent of lavender and old books.
Her bedroom.
The one she had occupied as a child.
Aelira's blood ran cold.
"No…" she whispered.
She stumbled out of bed and ran to the mirror. The girl staring back at her had softer features, unscarred skin, and wide silver-gray eyes filled with disbelief.
She looked… sixteen.
Ten years younger.
Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the floor.
"I'm back," she murmured, fingers trembling. "I'm really back."
Reincarnation.
Not a dream. Not madness.
A second chance.
Her expression hardened.
This time, she would not be naive.
This time, she would not play the obedient princess.
This time, she would survive—no matter the cost.
A sudden sharp pain shot through her chest.
She gasped as something stirred deep within her—warm, ancient, and powerful. The air around her trembled. The candles flickered violently, flames bending toward her as if drawn by an invisible force.
Aelira froze.
Magic.
She had never been able to use magic in her first life. Or so she was told.
The pain faded, leaving behind a strange, steady warmth—like a sleeping beast curling around her heart.
Footsteps echoed outside her door.
"Aelira?" a maid called. "Are you awake?"
Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Yes," she answered softly.
I'm awake.
And this time—
The kingdom would not be ready for her.
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