They dressed her in white for the execution.
Not because it was tradition. Not because it was merciful.
But because it would make the blood more poetic.
Lady Evelynn Thorn stood on the scaffold, wrists bound with enchanted silver, her head held high even as her knees trembled. The icy wind cut through her thin gown, but she didn't flinch. Let them watch. Let them all watch.
Below her, the crowd buzzed like insects—eager, loud, and blind. Nobles who once toasted to her brilliance now whispered gleefully behind jeweled fans. Commoners who'd never met her shouted curses like they knew her sins. And at the highest balcony of the palace stood the man who had betrayed her most.
Crown Prince Alric.
Her fiancé.
Her executioner.
He wore full regalia, gold and crimson shining beneath the winter sun. Hands clasped behind his back, face carved from ice.
Evelynn searched his eyes for a flicker of guilt.
She found none.
A month ago, he had kissed her under moonlight and promised her forever.
A week ago, he accused her of treason.
And now?
He would watch her die like she was nothing.
The priest began his speech. Something about honor, duty, justice. The words blurred into static as Evelynn stared at the crowd, her chest burning with rage. She had been loyal. She had been perfect. And they still turned on her.
Her maid had cried when they dragged Evelynn from her cell.
"Run, my lady," she whispered. "You don't deserve this."
But Evelynn had smiled, even then. "No," she said. "Not yet. Let them kill me properly."
A sharp clink echoed across the square as the executioner raised his sword.
"This is your justice?" she said, her voice calm. "Fine. Let it be written in blood."
Her last thought was not of sorrow.
It was of fury.
And then—the blade fell.
---
Darkness. Silence. Cold.
And then—
[Rebirth Initiated.]
Calibrating timeline…
You have returned to Year 498, Day 64: The Winter Gala.
Evelynn gasped.
She bolted upright, drenched in sweat, lungs dragging in breath like she'd been drowning. Her hands flew to her neck. No blood. No blade. No rope.
She blinked. Music floated in the distance. Perfume clung to silk sheets. A familiar mirror caught her reflection—wide eyes, unblemished skin, not a day past seventeen.
The Winter Gala.
Three years before her death.
Three years before the betrayal.
She staggered to her feet, heart thundering, mind racing.
"Impossible," she whispered.
But there it was—proof in the softness of her skin, the warmth of her breath, and the echo of memories that hadn't happened yet.
This was no dream.
She was alive again.
"This time," she murmured, eyes glinting like ice, "I won't beg. I won't cry. I won't die."
"This time, I ruin them all."