The Royal Garden of Sol-Aeterna, capital city of Sundaria Empire was not designed for comfort; it was designed for intimidation.
It was a blinding assault of white marble and manicured nature. Every rosebush was trimmed into perfect geometric spheres. The fountains didn't just bubble; they roared with crystal-clear water that smelled faintly of citrus and old money.
Above us, the sun beat down with the oppressive intensity that the Empire was famous for. The "Sun-Blessed Capital," they called it. To me, it just felt like a very expensive tanning salon.
Nobles drifted through the garden like peacocks in a slow-motion dance. The air was thick with the clinking of high-quality, delicate, yet durable ceramic tea-ware and the venomous whisper of gossip.
"Did you see Lady Elara's dress? Last season's silk. How embarrassing."
"I heard House Vane missed their tithe again. Perhaps the 'Iron Wall' is finally rusting."
"Is that the Third Prince? He looks... awake. Usually, he's hungover by noon."
I stood near the refreshment table, clutching a glass of sparkling cider like a lifeline. I adjusted my collar, sweating not from the heat, but from the sheer density of aristocratic malice in the air.
My strategy was flawless: Become a potted plant. A very anxious, internally screaming potted plant.
I leaned against a marble pillar, half-hidden by a massive fern. If I stood very still, maybe the plot would forget I existed.
My eyes scanned the crowd, bypassing the generic NPCs and focusing on the entrance.
"Where is she?" I murmured into my glass. "Come on, Lady Vane. Show yourself. Trip over your dress. Stutter. Drop a handkerchief. Give me a sign that the timeline is intact."
The crowd parted. The chatter died down, replaced by a ripple of hushed whispers.
At the top of the grand staircase, she appeared.
Anastasia Vane.
She was wearing a dress of pale crimson, the color of a fresh wound. Her golden hair was a cascade of light, and her posture was rigid, perfect.
But it was her eyes that made my blood run cold.
In the first timeline, she walked with her head down.
Now, she was looking straight ahead.
(Oh no. Oh no, no, no.)
I shrank further behind the fern.
She began to descend the stairs. She didn't wobble. She didn't hesitate. She moved with the fluid, terrifying grace of a predator entering a petting zoo.
She wasn't looking at the ground. She was scanning the faces of the crowd. And then, for a split second, her crimson eyes locked onto the fern.
Locked onto me.
She smiled.
It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of a butcher who just spotted a particularly juicy pig.
"Third Prince," her lips seemed to shape the words across the garden.
I nearly dropped my cider.
(Abort. Abort mission. The timeline is cooked.)
As she moved through the crowd, the whispers grew louder, sharpened like knives intended to draw blood.
"Look at her head held high. Does she not know her place?"
"A Vane acting like royalty? How quaint."
"I heard her father died of shame. She should follow him."
The insults were blatant. In the script, this was the moment Anastasia would flinch. She would bite her lip, tears welling in her eyes, and stumble in her haste to escape the cruelty.
But Anastasia Vane did not flinch.
She walked through the verbal crossfire as if the nobles were merely buzzing flies. She didn't even blink. Her path was a straight, unwavering line, cutting through the sea of silk and jewels directly toward me.
I held my breath. Trip, I pleaded internally. Trip over a pebble. Spill a drink on a Duke. Do something clumsy.
She didn't.
She stopped directly in front of me. There was no tea cup in her hand to spill. There was no tremor in her fingers.
She gathered her crimson skirts and sank into a curtsy so flawless, so mathematically perfect, that the surrounding gossip died instantly.
"Blessings and glory to the Sun," she said, her voice smooth as velvet wrapped around a razor blade. She rose, her eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying calmness. "It has been a long time, Third Prince."
I swallowed dryly, my throat clicking. I forced my posture to straighten, mimicking the arrogance the mirror had taught me.
"Lady Vane," I replied, my voice tighter than I intended. "I see you have... arrived."
(She didn't stutter. She didn't flinch. 99% probability of Regression. I need to blend in. I need to be the "Scum Prince." If I act like the trash she remembers, at least I'm not make her suspicious of me being not The "Willes" she aim for.)
I forced a sneer onto my face, slumping my shoulders in a display of practiced boredom. I looked her up and down with deliberate rudeness.
"I am surprised to see you here, Lady Vane," I drawled, waving a hand dismissively. "I assumed the House of Vane was too busy... rusting... to attend such a civilized gathering. Did you get lost on the way to the servants' entrance?"
It was a textbook villain line. Cheap, classist, and cruel. In the script, this is where she bursts into tears.
Anastasia did not cry. She didn't even frown.
Slowly, methodically, she reached into the hidden folds of her crimson sleeve. She didn't pull out a handkerchief.
She pulled out a small, rough matchbox.
(What is she doing? That's not a prop from Chapter 1.)
Scritch.
The sound was shockingly loud in the sudden silence between us. A small flame erupted from the match head.
She held it up between her gloved fingers. The fire danced in the reflection of her crimson eyes. She watched the flame eat the wood, letting it burn down closer and closer to the silk of her glove. She didn't blink. She didn't pull away.
She let it burn until it was licking the tip of her finger.
Then, she blew it out. Whoosh.
A thin wisp of gray smoke curled toward my face.
"The weather is dry, Your Highness," she whispered, the corners of her lips curling into a smile that didn't reach her dead eyes. "Perfect for a fire."
I stared at the charred matchstick. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
(She knows. No, she doesn't know me. She knows the future. And that specific matchbox... that's not random. That's a message. A threat delivered in code.)
She is the Avenger. And she thinks I am the target.
(Stay calm. Do not engage. Do not provoke the nuclear warhead standing in front of you.)
I forced a laugh. It sounded brittle, like cracking glass.
"Is that the latest trend in the Northern provinces, Lady Vane?" I asked, gesturing vaguely at the burnt wood. "Pyromania as a hobby? How... rustic."
I took a step back, giving a lazy, dismissive wave.
"Well, do enjoy your little fire hazards. I suddenly remembered I have urgent business... elsewhere. Far away. Perhaps on another continent."
I turned on my heel, praying my legs wouldn't give out.
"Do excuse me."
(Run. Walk, but run inside your head.)
Anastasia watched the Prince's retreating back. She did not pursue him.
Instead, she slowly crushed the burnt matchstick between her gloved fingers, reducing it to ash.
(Strange...)
Her head tilted slightly to the side, a minute, bird-like movement.
(In my memory, he would have laughed. He would have called the guards to throw me out for bringing 'trash' into the garden. He would have enjoyed the spectacle. But he just... left?)
His insult about "pyromania" was weak. It lacked the genuine venom of the Willes she remembered. It felt... rehearsed. Like an actor reading lines he didn't quite believe in.
She narrowed her eyes, the crimson irises glowing faintly.
"He ran away," she whispered to the ashes in her palm. "The cowardice is the same. But the pattern is different."
She brushed the soot from her gloves.
"No matter. A moving target is still a target. It just makes the hunt slightly more... engaging."
She turned back to the party, her polite mask sliding back into place effortlessly.
"Next time, Third Prince. I won't miss."
Willes walked through the marble corridors of the palace, keeping his pace measured until he was out of sight. The moment he turned the corner, his shoulders slumped, and he let out a breath he felt he had been holding for twenty minutes.
He didn't look back. He just needed a door with a lock.
Meanwhile, in the garden, the atmosphere shifted.
The nobles who had whispered earlier were still clustered near the fountain, snickering behind their fans, emboldened by the Prince's departure.
Anastasia turned her gaze toward them. She didn't approach aggressively. She simply glided over, her movements silent.
"Oh, Lady Dupont," she said softly, appearing directly behind a woman in blue silk.
The woman jumped, spilling her wine.
"I couldn't help but overhear your concern about my father," Anastasia continued, her voice sweet and poisonous.
"You mentioned he died of shame? How fascinating. I was under the impression he died because a certain supply caravan arrived three weeks late—one that, if I recall correctly, was expected from the northern roads. But perhaps my memory is... faulty?"
The circle of nobles went deathly silent.
Anastasia smiled, her eyes curving into happy crescents.
"Do give the Count my regards. I hear the winters in the North are going to be particularly cruel this year. It would be a tragedy if anyone else... succumbed to the cold."
She left them standing there, pale and trembling, and took a sip of her tea.
It was perfectly brewed.