They dressed her in crimson again.

Crimson—bold and damning, the colour of sin and shame. A gown stitched in gold threads and polished lies. The same dress she wore the last time they dragged her from the ballroom and executed her in front of a cheering crowd. The same colour they gave her when she knelt, bloodied and blamed, at the heroine’s feet.

Lady Seraphine Vale sat before the mirror, motionless, letting the palace maids tug and twist her hair into elegant submission. They fussed over her silently, murmuring pleasantries she no longer heard. Their hands were gentle. Theirs always were. It wasn’t their job to kill her—just to make her beautiful for the slaughter.

She let them work.

Because she remembered now.

Not just this moment, but all the moments before.

The first time: she died in disgrace, branded a traitor after the heroine’s staged tears painted her as a monster.

The second is that she sacrificed herself to protect the kingdom, only to be erased from the history books.

The third: she loved the wrong man, trusted the wrong smile, and ended up with a knife in her back—by his hand.

And now: the fourth beginning.

Four lives. Four roles. Four graves.

Her eyes met her reflection—calm, composed, unreadable. But inside, something sharp coiled in her chest like a blade unsheathed. She hadn’t asked to remember. She hadn’t chosen to wake up. But now that she had, she would not waste it.

This time, she wasn’t playing along.

There was a knock at the door. “My lady? The guests are assembled. His Grace awaits your arrival.”

His Grace.

Adrien Vance. The man who once kissed her knuckles and called her beloved. The man who carved her open in the third timeline and whispered, “This is mercy.”

Seraphine stood slowly. Her gown shimmered like a bloodstained flag under the glow of the chandelier.

She pressed two fingers to her lips. It's still soft. Still living.

Not for long, if the story had its way.

But this time, the story didn’t get to win.

The ballroom was exactly as she remembered—overdecorated and overstuffed with people who would gut her the second it became fashionable.

Nobles lined the walls like vultures in silk. The musicians played some sweeping waltz. The scent of wine, perfume, and false smiles thickened the air.

Her arrival drew silence like a blade across glass.

She stepped through it calmly, letting their whispers follow her like perfume.

There she is.

The future duchess.

The villainess in red.

She gave them nothing.

The heroine was already there, of course. Celestine Aria, the perfect picture of innocence, dressed in soft white and moonlight, clinging to Lord Adrien’s arm with just enough tremble in her smile to look sweet, not sly.

Seraphine felt a flicker of fury—but it burned cold. She’d spent three lives cleaning up Celestine’s messes, swallowing her lies, dying for her illusions.

Never again.

Seraphine turned from them,and that’s when she felt it. A gaze.

Not the usual scrutiny of court. Not suspicion or jealousy or shallow admiration. This one was heavy. Focused. Familiar… in a way that made her bones freeze.

She turned slowly, eyes scanning the crowd.

And there he was.

A man she’d never seen in any past life.

He stood near the window, away from the crowd, dark hair swept back, navy cloak fastened at the shoulder with a silver insignia,an eight-pointed flame. A mark of Arthenwald, the cold northern kingdom, was dismissed as irrelevant in the central script.

He should not exist.

Yet he was watching her like he knew.

Their eyes met.

And Seraphine felt the first crack in the script.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t smile. He inclined his head,not as a servant, not as a suitor, but as an equal.

It was small. But in this world, small shifts could start avalanches.

Later, when the music had dulled and the masks had slipped, Seraphine slipped from the ballroom like smoke, weaving through servants’ halls toward the greenhouse.

It was supposed to be locked at night. But she still remembered the hidden key under the statue of Saint Althea.

She stepped into the glasshouse, the humid air thick with nightbloom orchids and ghost lilies, and finally exhaled.

“You’re trying to leave early.”

His voice stopped her cold.

She turned.

He was leaning against a marble pillar, arms crossed, that same unreadable calm etched into his face.

“You followed me,” she said, tone even.

“You stood out,” he replied simply. “The script doesn’t like that.”

Something flared in her chest. “You’re awakened.”

“I’ve lived this tale enough times to know it ends badly.” He stepped closer, slowly, like he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t bolt. “But you… You were supposed to break long ago. Instead, you remembered. You changed.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why tell me this now?”

“Because I want out,” he said. “And you’re the only one who looks like she’s willing to set the whole thing on fire.”

A silence stretched between them. It's not awkward. Not afraid. Just… real.

Then he stepped closer. Too close.

“If the story sees us like this,” he murmured, “it’ll react.”

Seraphine didn’t move. Her pulse drummed in her throat.

“Then let it react.”

And just like that, she kissed him.

Not gently. Not romantically. But deliberately—a spark to dry kindling. A dare. A declaration.

When they parted, her eyes didn’t waver.

“Let the script choke on this,” she whispered.

And he smiled—truly smiled—for the first time.

The kiss still burned on her lips.

Not from passion. Not even from desire. From defiance.

A declaration against fate. A match struck in the dark. With one bold act, Seraphine cracked the story’s spine.

She left the greenhouse without a word, letting the heavy doors seal behind her. No guilt. No fluttering heart. Only a low heat under her ribs—the quiet hum of rebellion.

As she returned to the ballroom through the servant corridors, the music returned to her ears: polished waltzes, laughter that sounded too sharp, too clean. The air was thick with wine and honeyed poison.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a pane of glass. Hair is still immaculate. Lips slightly smudged. Eyes calm.

The perfect villainess.

The same woman they always destroyed.

Except now, the script was unravelling. And Seraphine held the thread.

She stepped back into the ballroom just in time to hear the heroine laugh.

Celestine Aria, radiant as ever, stood under a golden arch, dressed in pearl-trimmed white like a lamb led to applause. She floated from guest to guest, fluttering lashes and dropping compliments like petals. She had the nobles eating from her hands—just like always.

Seraphine paused at the edge of the crowd, watching.

So gentle. So harmless.

So fake.

Celestine had played the role of perfection in every lifetime. The sweet girl. The misunderstood saint. Everyone believed her tears. No one saw the knives.

Not until it was too late.

The heroine’s eyes slid across the room—and landed on Seraphine.

There. A flicker.

A hitch in her smile. Barely noticeable.

You see me, Seraphine thought. And you know I’m not following the script.

Celestine recovered quickly. Her mouth curved again, this time brighter, more practised.

“Seraphine!” she called out, her voice warm and gentle enough to melt steel. “You disappeared! We were worried.”

Liar.

She crossed the floor with perfect grace, her white skirts whispering behind her. Her hand found Seraphine’s, fingers cool and delicate.

“You’re not unwell, are you?” she asked, blinking those wide, doe-like eyes.

“No,” Seraphine said, voice smooth. “Just needed some air. The stench of roses was a bit much.”

Celestine laughed as if the jab didn’t land. “You always were so sensitive to smells. Remember that summer in Avemont, when the garden made you faint? Oh, how we worried!”

The crowd around them chuckled politely.

But Seraphine wasn’t listening anymore.

Because Celestine’s words had dragged up something old. Something buried.

It's a different summer. A different garden. And a different kind of betrayal.

flashbacks,

Seraphine had only been seventeen, then,naïve, loyal, enchanted by the brightness that was Celestine. They’d been inseparable. Two girls in a cruel world, clinging to each other like sisters.

Until the scandal.

A broken vase. A ruined document. A noble’s son crying slander. Something petty,small enough to vanish in a day.

But someone had to take the fall.

Celestine had cried in private. Clutched Seraphine’s hands and said, “They’ll exile me. They’ll disown me. Please.”

And Seraphine, ever loyal, ever blind, had stepped forward.

“I’ll say it was me.”

She remembered the trial. The cold looks. The loss of title. Being cast from the capital in disgrace.

She remembered turning back once at the gates, just once, hoping for Celestine.

She never came.

Seraphine blinked. The ballroom snapped back into focus.

Celestine was still smiling.

“I do hope we can talk later,” she said, squeezing her hand lightly. “I miss our little moments.”

“Of course,” Seraphine replied, voice like a blade wrapped in silk. “We have so much to… unpack.”

Then she pulled her hand away.

Not abruptly. Not rudely. But deliberately. Enough for the crowd to feel it.

Celestine tilted her head. “You’re different today.”

“I get that a lot lately.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

As the party continued, Seraphine retreated to the shadows, wine in hand, mind sharp. She needed to think. The kiss with Cael had already disrupted the sequence. If the world was reacting to that—how long before it corrected itself?

Before the Plotkeepers tried to push her back on track?

Adrien appeared across the hall, the young master himself. Broad-shouldered, regal, still wearing the same polished smile he'd used when he stabbed her in Life Three.

She looked away. Not out of fear. Out of disgust.

She’d loved that man once. Truly. Completely.

And he had repaid her with betrayal dressed as duty.

A presence stepped beside her. Not Cael. A servant.

“Message for you, my lady,” the boy whispered.

She took the slip of paper, unfolding it slowly.

If you’re truly off-script, meet me tonight at the west courtyard. Midnight. No guards. No tricks. I’ll know if you lie.

C?

Cael? No. He’d speak to her directly.

Celestine?

Or worse… a Plotkeeper?

She folded the message carefully and tucked it into her glove.

The world was shifting around her now. She could feel it. The script was unravelling. The players were stirring.

And Seraphine?

She was no longer content to survive.

Now, she was ready to rewrite the entire story.

Cael had kissed her, knowing exactly what it meant.

It's not a romantic gesture. Not a ploy.

A declaration of war.

The greenhouse still smelled of night orchids and damp glass as he stood alone after she left, staring at the space where her lips had touched his.

His hand brushed the spot just below his collarbone. It's still warm.

Seraphine Vale.

She was supposed to break. That was her role. Beautiful. Ruthless. Doomed.

In every script, she shattered—one way or another. He’d read the records, saw the patterns, lived through it once himself.

But tonight?

She didn’t break. She kissed back.

And now the story was off balance. He could feel the ripple of it—like a string pulled too tight.

He made his way back to his guest chambers, where a diplomatic envoy waited to ask about trade routes and alliances.

He waved them off.

“Later.”

He stood alone before the mirror, removed his cloak, and stared at the silver emblem of Arthenwald—the eight-pointed flame. Burned into his fate like a scar.

Arthenwald didn’t exist in the original script. Not really. A forgotten northern kingdom, buried beneath frost and politics, is too far from the capital to matter.

That was by design.

The central kingdoms had trimmed the narrative down to the core cast. Everyone else became set dressing. Footnotes. Disposable.

He’d been disposable once.

In the third cycle, he was a minor prince invited to a peace summit. They poisoned his father. Pinned the blame on rebels. And when did Cael speak out?

The story erased him.

Literally.

He watched pages disappear from the Great Codex. His name, his deeds, his existence—gone like ink in rain.

He shouldn’t have remembered any of it.

But he had.

Somewhere in that cycle, he’d awakened. Alone. Isolated. Aware. Watching the world reset itself like a stage play.

And on the edge of every retelling, always—her.

Lady Seraphine Vale. Always in crimson. Always standing tall before she fell. Always betrayed.

And always… so close to breaking free.

He never interfered before.

He didn’t think she’d survive if he did.

But this time was different.

She remembered.

He saw it in her eyes at the banquet. That calm fire. That barely-hidden disgust when Celestine spoke. The cold indifference when she turned from Adrien.

And then, in the greenhouse—the way she dared him to act. “Then make it count,” she’d said.

So he had.

But it wasn’t just rebellion. Or attraction.

It was recognition.

He had seen her die in three timelines. Once in exile, poisoned and alone. Once executed by Adrien’s blade. Once consumed by a cursed fire, she ignited herself, just to end it all.

He remembered the third time clearest.

She had looked up at the palace, flames dancing in her hair, and whispered, “Is this all I was meant to be?”

He had been watching from the woods. Powerless. A forgotten prince in a story that no longer wrote his name.

He hadn’t even gotten to bury her.

But tonight—she kissed him. Not with affection. Not with hope.

With rage.

That was the difference.

This Seraphine wasn’t looking to survive.

She was looking to win.

Cael moved to his writing desk, pulled out a small leather-bound notebook—his own unauthorized ledger of what the official system tried to erase.

He flipped through it quickly, landing on the page labelled "S.V. - Cycle IV".

Under it, he wrote one word in bold, unsteady ink:

Awake.

Below that:

Kissed. Defiant. Unafraid.

Possible divergence at Chapter Three. Watch for retaliatory correction.

The system engine always corrected anomalies eventually. Sometimes subtly—unplanned accidents, missing pages. Sometimes violently.

This time, they might move fast.

He needed to prepare.

He needed allies.

He needed her.

A knock at the chamber door.

“Come,” he said without looking up.

A young maid entered—nervous, trembling slightly.

“Message, Your Highness. It arrived unsigned.”

He took it, unsealed it, and scanned the content once.

If you’re truly off-script, meet me at the west courtyard. Midnight. No guards. No lies. I’ll know if you fake it.

—C

Cael narrowed his eyes.

Not Seraphine. She didn’t hide behind initials.

C?

Celestine?

Plotkeeper?

Or something worse?

He folded the note, set it aflame in the hearth, and watched it curl into ash.

If this was what it looked like—someone else had noticed Seraphine’s change. And they were moving fast.

He pulled on his cloak again and left the room.

The halls of the palace were quiet, but not still. He could feel the pulse of the narrative watcg—waiting for him to act. Like the walls were alive.

Let them watch.

For the first time in four lifetimes, he had someone to walk beside.

And Cael Ardent of Arthenwald had no intention of letting her die again.