The morning air was sharp, biting through the stone courtyard of House Vaelith. Mist curled around the marble pillars like ghostly fingers, hiding the faces of nobles who had come to witness the spectacle. Elara's heart pounded, but it was not fear. It was disbelief. Betrayal.
Her father, once the proud head of the house of fire mages, stood with a cold, unreadable expression. Behind him, the council murmured in approval, their robes brushing the cold stones as they nodded. And there, at the edge of the gathering, her fiancé, the man who had once promised her his hand, now watched with a cruel smirk.
"Powerless, pathetic, and unworthy," her father declared, voice echoing across the courtyard. "House Vaelith will have no shame within these walls. And you, Elara… will pay for the dishonor you have brought upon us all."
The words landed like stones in her chest. She opened her mouth, tried to protest, but her voice caught in her throat. This was not the first time her family had humiliated her publicly, but it was the first time they had condemned her to death.
Elara's thoughts raced. She remembered the humiliation she had endured in the Academy—teachers laughing at her failed attempts at fire magic, nobles whispering behind her back, her own mother's disappointed eyes. And now, this ritual would end it all. The executioners were skilled, trained in forbidden arts, and today they would strip away her life for the mistakes she had not made.
Chains clinked as they bound her wrists. She noticed the symbols etched into the stone platform beneath her feet—ancient runes designed to suppress magic. Her power, weak as it was in public, would be trapped. Even if she tried to summon a spark, it would fizzle, leaving her utterly defenseless.
A hush fell over the crowd as the executioner stepped forward, his hooded face concealing his expression. In his hands was a silver dagger, engraved with sigils that glimmered faintly in the misty light. He knelt and traced the blade across the runes.
Elara's pulse quickened. She had studied rituals, learned of the forbidden ways in the hidden archives of the Academy, but nothing had prepared her for this—the cold certainty of death staring back from the assembled nobles.
"Any last words?" her fiancé's voice called out, dripping with mockery.
She forced herself to lift her chin, her eyes locking on him. "You will regret this," she said, low and steady. "One day, all of you will see that the weak are never as powerless as you think."
A ripple of laughter spread through the courtyard.
The executioner rose, and the silver dagger gleamed under the pale morning sun. Around her, the runes began to pulse with light, cold and unyielding. Elara felt her mana resisting, pushing against the invisible chains that bound her power. A tiny spark danced in her palm—flickering, fragile, but enough to remind her that she was still alive, still fighting, still herself.
Her father's gaze never wavered. "Let the ritual begin," he commanded.
The crowd watched as she was positioned in the center of the stone platform. Chanting began—soft at first, then louder, echoing through the courtyard like a storm gathering strength. The air grew heavy. Mist thickened. Elara felt her body trembling, not from cold, but from the hum of forbidden energy around her.
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, thinking of the life she could have had—the friendships she had lost, the trust she had given, the love she had believed in. A tear escaped, running down her cheek, but she did not wipe it. Tears would not save her. Only resolve could.
As the executioners raised their hands, the air shimmered. Light from the runes flared violently, swallowing the courtyard in a blinding brilliance. A searing heat tore through her, more intense than any fire she had ever felt. Her mana screamed in protest, trapped but still alive, still burning.
Elara's vision blurred. Shapes twisted. She felt the world tilt beneath her feet. And then, for the first time, she realized something impossible—she remembered.
Every detail of what would happen in the next three years flashed before her eyes. The betrayals. The ambushes. The despair. And most painfully of all, the death she thought inevitable.
Her lips parted, and she whispered to herself, almost too soft for anyone to hear:
"I… I will not die this way."
The silver dagger fell.
The crowd gasped. The courtyard erupted in chaos.
But the blade did not pierce her chest. Instead, the light from the runes twisted strangely, spiraling upward, as if the ritual itself rejected her. Energy surged through her, not enough to free her completely, but enough to pull her back from the edge. She collapsed to the stone, trembling, her vision dimming—but alive.
The mist swirled, carrying her consciousness away from the courtyard, from the executioners, from the betrayal. And somewhere deep in the shadows of the city, eyes watched, unreadable, silent, and calculating.
Elara's heart raced, but not with fear. With something else—determination. She would return. She would survive. She would rise.
And the first step of her long, dangerous journey had already begun.
The world around her dissolved into darkness… but Elara knew one thing for certain: nothing would ever be the same again.