They called her the Saint of Thorns.

Lily Valmont stood at the center of the Eternal Temple, a vision in white silk and silver lace. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, painting her golden hair with hues of flame. She looked every inch the holy lady the people worshipped—divine, distant, untouchable.

But behind her violet eyes lived a woman made of ice.

At twenty-three, Lily ruled the court with the precision of a sharpened blade. Rumors of poison in teacups and exiled nobles followed her like perfume. She never denied them. Power, after all, was easier to hold when people feared what you might do.

She clutched the ceremonial cross against her chest as the High Priest droned ancient words. His voice echoed in the vaulted chamber, but Lily heard none of it. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on the silence that awaited her at the Ashmoor estate, the allies who smiled too easily, and the man who once looked at her with love but now only with hate.

She had everything, and yet she was utterly alone.

When the final hymn ended, she descended the altar steps with practiced grace. A servant bowed as she passed, holding out the ornate basin of offerings. Coins, flowers, and folded slips of prayer paper filled it to the brim.

And something else.

Her fingers brushed cold stone—smooth and black, veined with gold like lightning frozen in crystal. A pendant.

The moment her skin touched it, the world shifted.

The temple blurred. The sounds of the choir became a distant hum. The air crackled like lightning before a storm.

“Lily Valmont,” a voice whispered, old and velvet-smooth. “Do you wish you could undo it all?”

Her breath caught.

Undo what? The betrayals? The walls she built around her heart? The love she buried?

“…Yes,” she whispered.

The pendant pulsed once in her hand—and the world shattered.

Darkness. Then light. Blinding, soft light.

When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the temple. She was standing in a familiar room—the bedroom of her youth. Everything was exactly as it had been years ago. Her childhood books. The ivory curtains. The little glass bird on her writing desk.

And in the mirror, her reflection stared back. Younger. Softer. Unscarred.

She wasn’t twenty-three anymore. She was seventeen.

The door creaked open behind her.

And there he stood.

Ashen hair, storm-gray eyes, and a smile that hadn't yet learned how to lie. His name was Lucien Everhart. The boy she once loved. The man she would one day destroy.

“Lily,” he said gently, “you’re awake early.”

She couldn’t speak. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Time had given her a second chance.

But the question was—would she rewrite her fate, or repeat it?

---

Flashes of memory—warm hands, laughter, a betrayal. A man with kind eyes. A younger Lily, laughing in sunlight. A dagger hidden in roses. A kiss stolen in the rain.

Then—light.

She gasped, lungs seizing as air flooded back in. The pendant was gone. The temple was gone.

She stood in the center of her childhood bedroom.

The same rosewood vanity. The same ivory sheets. The same scent of lavender and ink.

But the mirror showed a younger face. Softer. Hopeful. Untouched by blood and betrayal.

Lily stumbled back, breath caught in her throat. Her reflection stared back with wide violet eyes—full of life.

“No,” she whispered. “This can’t be…”

The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Not the man she’d destroyed. Not yet.

The man who would one day break her heart.

---

“Lily?”

Lucien’s voice pulled her back from the edge of disbelief. His silver hair was shorter than she remembered, unkempt in that charming, careless way he always wore it at seventeen. His eyes—those storm-gray eyes—held none of the bitterness she'd come to know. Only warmth.

She hadn’t seen that warmth in years.

“I… I must have been dreaming,” she said, her voice quieter than intended.

Lucien stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “A nightmare?”

If only he knew. She offered a small nod, unsure whether she was still dreaming now.

He crossed the room and sat at the edge of her bed, as casually as he used to before everything fell apart. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, “even for you.”

That much hadn’t changed. Lily was always composed, always unreadable. It had protected her for years. But now, that very mask felt heavy.

“I suppose I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she said carefully.

Lucien smiled, tilting his head. “Then let me take your mind off it.”

Before she could protest, he held out something wrapped in cloth—neatly folded, with a thin ribbon around it. She opened it with trembling fingers.

A book. One she hadn’t seen in years.

“The Art of Illusion: Beginner’s Arcane Theory.” Her lips parted. “Where did you find this?”

“You mentioned wanting to study magic that didn’t rely on bloodline power. I thought this might help.” He scratched his neck sheepishly. “I know it’s not much, but…”

She clutched the book to her chest. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know what this meant to her.

“I burned this book,” she whispered.

Lucien blinked. “What?”

She quickly masked the slip. “I mean—I lost it. Years ago. Thank you.”

“You’re acting strange today,” he said, half-joking. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

No. She wasn’t. Her mind spun with memories she hadn’t yet lived again. Ballrooms filled with venomous smiles. Her rise to power. The moment she turned on him. The moment he turned on her.

This was her chance to change it all.

“I’m fine,” she said, setting the book down gently. “But thank you for worrying.”

He gave her a searching look, as though trying to see past the calm. Then he smiled again, soft and real. “Of course I worry. You’re important to me.”

She flinched.

Lucien stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his uniform. “Come down soon. The tutors are in a foul mood already.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, Lily sat in silence.

She held the book, breathing in its scent. The paper was crisp. New. Unburned.

This was real.

She was back.

And this time, she wouldn’t let him slip away. Not because she was weak. Not because of politics. Not even because of fate.

She would rewrite the story.

And no one—not the court, not the gods, not even Lucien himself—would stop her.

---

Lily descended the marble staircase of the Valmont estate with a grace born of habit. Her fingers trailed along the polished banister, each step echoing through the grand hall like a heartbeat. Everything was as she remembered: the golden chandelier, the deep crimson carpets, the portraits of ancestors glaring down in eternal judgment.

But she was not the same.

“Lady Lily,” came the sharp voice of Tutor Elric, already frowning as she entered the study hall. “You are six minutes late.”

In her past life, she would have stared him down and made him regret the comment. But now, she only dipped her head slightly. “My apologies, sir. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

The tutor blinked, startled by her uncharacteristic humility, but moved on without complaint.

Lily slid into her usual seat, across from Lucien. He gave her a glance, not suspicious, but curious. She ignored it and opened her book, even though she couldn’t focus on the text. Her mind swam with memories—some already starting to fade, others sharper than ever.

The future was a fragile thing now. Every word, every gesture mattered.

“Lily,” Lucien whispered when the tutor turned to the blackboard. “What happened to your usual fire? You used to argue about everything.”

“I’m not in the mood to argue anymore,” she replied, not looking up. “Not when I could be learning.”

He stared for a moment, then chuckled softly. “Who are you and what have you done with Lady Valmont?”

That smile—it used to fluster her. Now it only made her chest ache.

The lesson ended swiftly. As the other students filed out, Lucien lingered beside her. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

She hesitated. Then, for the first time in years, she let a little honesty escape.

“I’m just realizing how much time I’ve wasted.”

Lucien didn’t press. He simply walked with her down the corridor, their steps quiet, companionable. For a moment, the weight of the future lifted.

But fate, she knew, never stayed gentle for long.

As they neared the courtyard, the doors opened—and she saw her.

Marianne Highmoor.

The girl who would one day become Lucien’s fiancée.

Lily’s stomach twisted. In her past life, Marianne had been sweet and clever—an unwitting rival who had never meant to hurt her. Lucien had chosen her with kindness, not cruelty.

Marianne curtsied, her brown curls bouncing lightly. “Lord Everhart. Lady Valmont.”

Lucien smiled. “Marianne. You’re early.”

“I wanted to practice before today’s fencing lesson.”

Lily studied her quietly. Her first instinct was to glare, to assert dominance like she once did. But now she saw something else—a girl barely seventeen, unaware of the storm that would come.

Lily smiled instead. “Then we won’t keep you.”

Marianne blinked, surprised. “Th-thank you, my lady.”

As she hurried off, Lucien glanced at Lily. “You’ve changed.”

She didn’t deny it.

Because this time, she wasn’t going to lose.

Not her dignity.

Not her future.

And definitely not Lucien.

---