"Why won't you die already?"

The words tore out of her throat half breath, half laugh, as her hands pressed harder against the man's throat. His nails scratched at her arms but she didn't care. She'd felt worse— aches that bloomed from inside her ribs, fevers that made her bones churn. This was almost merciful.

His dagger still jutted from her abdomen, glinting like a cruel ornament in the moonlight. "Screw these useless hands." Ophelia cursed her hands, pouring everything into her grip around his throat.

The assassin gurgled something, his eyes bulging in panic, not conviction. "You look surprised." She let out a raspy laugh, leaning in close enough for him to smell the bitter herbs on her breath. "Did no one tell you that sick corpses fight back the most?"

The room echoed with a sickening sound as she slammed his head down on the floor, blood smearing the marble. The fear in his wide eyes said everything; he hadn't expected her to fight back. Who would expect a sick bag of bones to fight back?

"Just die already, you brute" Her voice cracked— dry, venomous. Ophelia slammed the man's head one final time on the marble before his body went still. The silence echoed off the walls of her chambers. For a few long moments, she kept her hands on his neck as if that could keep her from slipping.

She bit back a cry as she plucked the blade out of her flesh, letting it clatter to the floor. Blood splattered across the white surface, painting a picture that looked a lot like how Ophelia imagined death. She pushed herself upright, only to collapse beside the dead assassin, crimson blooming like deadly petals on her pale nightgown.

"Why?" She whispered to the corpse beside her. "Why won't you lot let me be?”

Her hand pressed against her wound but it was too late. She strained to look at the vial sitting at her bedside. She had meant to take the medicine after dinner. Now it just sat there on the table, mocking her. Laughter burst from her throat, sharp enough to make her wounds scream.

“I’ve been dying quietly for years.” She turned her gaze toward the wide empty eyes of the killer beside her. “You’re just noise at the end.”

The wind slipped through the open windows, brushing past the curtains embroidered with the imperial family's emblem— a sword through a star. How fitting, she thought. The empire's golden bloodline had long abandoned the daughter they couldn't cure.

She remembered her father's ministers muttering when she passed by: Pity, she was born so frail. Sooner or later she'd snap. She remembered the way her siblings ignored her like she was a part of the furniture. She remembered the eyes of her father— those cold, blue eyes that gazed upon her like she was a burden on his title.

The assassin was probably sent to tidy up the loose ends.

They'd hidden her in silence, tucked deep into the darkest corners of the east wing— a forgotten portrait left to gather dust and fade with the years. But now they will look again, when the crimson starts to stain their carpet and the corpse they'd forsaken starts to decay in their palace.

Her heart thudded slowly, one reluctant beat at a time. The candle on the table trembled in its flame, mirroring the rhythm of her fading pulse. Yet inside her, the fire roared hotter than ever. Her eyelids drooped and she let them fall shut.

“They should pray I don't crawl out of this. If I do…” Her lips curved up into a smile— fragile and icy. “Then they'd all be dead.”

The candle’s flame died with the final thrum of Ophelia’s heart. Her last thought drifted to the faces of her family, the moment they’d find two bodies in her chambers. She wondered which corpse would trouble them more.

The first thought Ophelia had upon waking was that the afterlife was disappointingly dusty.

The second, far more useful thought was that her abdomen didn't hurt. She wasn't bleeding out on cold marble, staring at a dead man and cursing her family. Instead, she was staring holes into a familiar vial of herbs at her bedside.

It had taken three days of feverish, disbelieving prodding to confirm the facts. Three days of walking the halls bustling with servants that should have retired months ago. Three days of watching the maids bring her food like she hadn't just bled out the night prior. The evidence was undeniable: her body was a year younger, her health yet to deteriorate further, the trees outside yet to shed their final goodbye for the upcoming winter. Ophelia didn't need to say it out loud to know she was a year earlier in the timeline of her slow, agonizing demise.

She picked up the vial between her fingers, feeling the cool glass on her even colder skin. A gift, she thought, a grim, humorless smile pulling at her lips. The gods must have a truly wicked sense of humor to throw me back in time.

Ophelia fiddled with the small bottle in her hand, the glass catching the morning light. "Herbs meant to soothe her persistent fever", as insisted by the physician. It was just useless, expensive water, as far as she was concerned. For a moment, she considered flinging it out the window, imagining the costly, fluid splatter across the manicured lawn. If the servants found this shattered vial, Dr. Alistair would be summoned, and Ophelia would be swaddled in blankets and smothered with concern she doubted was genuine.

Instead, she popped the cap with a thumb, turned toward the window, and poured the contents— the cloying, half-soil, half-rotten 'remedy' into her potted point.

"Drink up, little weed," she whispered to the plant. "See if you can survive the Golden family's generosity."

Ophelia swiftly tossed the empty vial back on the table, the glass treading softly against the wood. A thin, sticky film of the liquid still clung to the inner walls, marking the years she had obediently swallowed the useless draughts. She ignored it, her attention caught instead by the tall, ornate mirror standing sentinel across the chamber.

She drew herself away from the window and crossed the floor, her body heavy yet unfamiliar in its ease—a ghost of the girl she used to be.

In the heavy, gilded frame, the shadow stared back at her. Dark skin, smooth yet drained of warmth, caught the sunlight like polished bronze— a shade that had always set her apart, long before the fevers did. The illness was only ever the reason they spoke their disdain aloud. Silvery-white hair, cropped just above her shoulders, framed her face in uneven waves that glinted faintly with each movement. And then there were her eyes, blue as the Empire's banner— the cursed inheritance that marked her as one of them. Had they not been her own, Ophelia would have gladly erased those eyes from existence.

For a long moment, she just stared. It was a face far too alive for someone who had already died once—warmth lingering where there should’ve been pallor, breath steady where it should’ve been met with a coughing fit. The sight felt like a divine joke to Ophelia— life returned but not restored.

A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. “Your Highness, it is Lira. May I enter?”

“Enter.” Ophelia answered, her gaze still fixed on the mirror, unwilling to surrender the staring contest with her own reflection.

The door creaked open on rusted hinges, and a young maid slipped in—a sweet-faced girl dusted with freckles. In her hands rested a single envelope, its wax seal gleaming blue beneath the light.

“The steward has sent a reply to your letter.” Her voice was cautious, as though the paper itself might carry bad news.

That caught Ophelia’s attention. Finally, she thought, reaching for the letter with a steady hand. The seal was still warm from the wax, the mark of the steward pressed deep into the blue—proper, officious, and faintly irritating.

When she had first awoken in this gilded cage of a room—alive again, or something close to it—her very first act hadn’t been to pray to gods unknown, or to weep, but to write. A letter to the steward of the East Wing, crisp and curt, requesting the replacement of the palace physician. Dr. Alistair.

The memory of his squirming form almost coaxed a smile from her. As much as she’d relished watching him stammer through excuses and false assurances, the man had been a fool draped in the Emperor’s favor. His remedies were water and his confidence disappointingly thinner. She’d simply been too indifferent, too tired of it all, to send him away before she died.

But indifference had died with her.

She tore open the letter and scanned the words with practiced indifference. The feeling didn’t last long; her gaze snagged on a single, neatly penned line: Request denied. His Majesty has personally appointed the current physician, and his decision stands.

A dry, amused smile ghosted across her lips. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

“Lira.”

The red-haired maid startled at the sound of her name. “Y-yes, Your Highness?"

“Prepare my formal attire,” Ophelia said, her voice calm—almost lazy in its composure. “And have the guards ready a carriage for the Palace of the Veil of Stars.” She crumpled the letter in her fist and tossed it aside, as though it had personally insulted her.

Lira hesitated at the mention of the palace, fingers tightening around the folds of her apron. She could see it in her eyes— Her Highness was up to something. “May I be so bold as to ask why Your Highness wishes to go to the Palace of the Veil of Stars?”

Ophelia didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the mirror instead, on the faint curve of her own smirk reflected back at her. “We’re paying the Emperor a visit.” The words left her like a quiet promise, sharp beneath the calm. Then, with a soft laugh, she turned toward the maid. “It’s time to make a scene. A noisy one.”

The carriage rocked over the bumpy road, making Ophelia more irritated than she already was. If only the servants had taken care of her comfort the way they do for her siblings. Ophelia adjusted the folds of her sapphire gown, simple silver embroidery glinting like stars. Every jewel, ribbon, and strand of unruly hair was carefully placed. She had the maids assist her, every detail carefully considered — wanting to face the Emperor perfectly composed. Just thinking about how long it took her to find a gown suitable for a formal meeting tired her. She's only ever worn nightgowns as her health allowed it.

She looked out at the unbroken blue of the sky. It figured the gods would grant her good weather now, of all times. Not mercy—just amusement. Keep watching, she told them silently. You’ll have your story soon enough.

The sudden jolt of the carriage shattered her plotting. She caught the door handle just in time, bracing herself before her head could meet the window. When the wheels finally steadied, she sank back against the seat with a sharp sigh. The relief barely had a chance to breathe before another round of bumps rattled through her—bone to marrow, reminder and insult all at once.

She shoved the window open, irritation crackling in her tone. “Lyeon!”

Riding beside the carriage, the knight turned toward her, reins loose in one hand and a half-smirk already in place. “Enjoying the ride, My Lady?”

Her glare could’ve curdled milk. “Tell the driver to keep his wits about him. Or is he planning to kill me before we even reach that cursed palace?”

Lyeon tilted his head, as if thinking it over. “Would make the trip shorter.”

“Lyeon.” Her voice dropped, quiet and dangerous.

His smirk faltered—the sharp edge in her tone catching him off guard. He straightened at once, all traces of mockery gone. “Right. Slower. Got it.”

She shut the window and eyed her reflection, smoothing down what could hardly be called hair. The uneven cut barely reached her shoulders. Lira, poor thing, had tried to make sense of it—two braids looped back and fastened with jewels to make her look less like a ghost and more like a princess.

A knot of unease twisted in Ophelia’s gut. She’d marched off to face the Emperor without even requesting an audience—no plan, no thought, just impulse. Her teeth worried at a nail as she muttered a curse under her breath. Death, it seemed, hadn’t cured her of poor decisions.

Before she could come up with an excuse to turn back, the carriage jolted to a stop.

“We’ve arrived, Your Highness,” the driver called.

She wiped her clammy palms on her gown. “Compose yourself,” she muttered. “It’s just the Emperor, not the gallows.”

For a moment, she waited—long enough for Lyeon to redeem himself, to remember basic courtesy and open the door. When silence answered, she scoffed, shoved it open herself, and stepped out with all the grace she could muster. She didn’t spare him a glance.

Keep testing me, Lyeon, she thought darkly, and I’ll show you what real regret feels like.

The Palace of the Veil of Stars rose ahead, a silver wound in the serene sky—too tranquil for what waited inside. Spires clawed at the heavens, light slipping across them like liquid metal. Ophelia’s gaze traced the familiar carvings, the gilded balconies, the banners fluttering in arrogant rhythm. Compared to this behemoth, her east wing was a servant’s quarters. Of course it was. The Emperor loved spectacle; opulence was his favorite weapon. Let him have his glitter, she thought. Even loneliness looks impressive when it’s plated in gold.

Ophelia ignored the slow churn of panic rising in her chest as the gates came into view—gilded iron twisting like vines, catching the sun as if mocking her nerves. She crossed the marble courtyard, her heels striking in steady defiance. The air smelled of roses and wax, the kind of purity that came only from servants scrubbing away life itself. Beyond, the great doors of the hall waited—tall, grand. They looked as cold and unwelcoming as the man who ruled behind them. 

The corridors stretched on forever, pillars rising like they were built to make people feel small. Portraits of long-dead Emperors lined the walls, watching her with that same stale grandeur. Ophelia paused to study them—ugly men in crowns—and felt a flicker of satisfaction. Serves you right.

Light poured through stained glass, breaking into shards of crimson and gold across the marble. Her steps rang in the silence, steady despite the tension knotting in her chest. At the end of the hall stood the throne room doors—massive oak carved with the imperial crest, a sword spearing a star. Two guards crossed their spears as her gaze met theirs.

This was it. The Lion's den.

“Inform His Majesty that the Second Princess is here,” she said, posture perfect, tone clipped.

The guards didn’t move. Their eyes slid over her with the kind of indifference that stung worse than insult.

“Ah, I see,” she said, a thin smile ghosting her lips. “The Emperor’s daughter returns from her sickbed, and suddenly titles no longer carry weight?”

Both men exchanged a glance, their postures stiffening with unease. There it is. Ophelia’s smile deepened, slow and sharp. One of them turned and disappeared into the throne room, leaving the other rooted in place. She met his stare head-on, just to watch him squirm, until the oak doors creaked open again and the first guard’s voice rang out—

“You have been granted an audience with His Majesty.”

Ophelia stepped inside, the doors clicking shut behind her. Her chest tightened as she surveyed the throne room—vast, unfamiliar, alive with the weight of power she’d never had.

The room was a cathedral of authority and presence. Marble floors stretched endlessly, polished so bright that they might have been meant for worship rather than walking. Banners of deep blue and silver hung from the vaulted ceiling— a whole sky of stitched stars reminding everyone who they supposedly served. The air was thick with incense and ego. 

And there he was.

The Emperor.

Seated on a throne that looked designed to crush the faint-hearted, he might as well have been carved from the same stone as the hall itself. His crown rested elsewhere; even with streaks of grey in his hair, he needed no gilded circlet to command attention. He appeared bored, but those glacial blue eyes cut through the hall with a precision born of power, not warmth.

Beside him stood the minister, Aldric—a scrawny man with glasses perched too carefully on his nose and a ledger clutched like a lifeline. The little chatterbox had always been the Emperor’s voice when he didn’t feel like speaking. She had hated him even as a child, watching him strut through the East Wing, barking orders at her mother and calling her a “mere maid” with all the arrogance of a man who thought he owned the world. Her mother had only smiled, brushing it off. It’s alright, Ophelia, she’d say, hiding the sting behind warmth. Now, Aldric bent forward, trembling with reverence and fear, a pitiful echo of the unjust man she had once watched dominate the woman she loved.

Ophelia lowered herself in a practiced curtsy, head bowed just enough to appease formality. Not waiting for permission, she rose, spine straight, chin high, daring the room to question her.

“Your Highness,” the minister adjusted his glasses with a nervous tug, fingers lingering on the frame longer than necessary. “It is a rare pleasure to see you within the great hall. May I inquire as to the nature of your visit?”

“The nature?” Ophelia's lips curved faintly. “Let's call it neglect. The steward of the east wing seems to believe my requests are optional.”

The minister tensed, blinking at her with a mix of shock and unease, as if the sharpness in her voice had sliced right through the fragile image he had of her—a sickly mouse hiding behind her mother’s skirts.

Ophelia continued: “I asked for my physician to be replaced. He refused, citing his majesty's authority.” She cast a quick glance at the Emperor, who lounged in his throne, fixated on the pendant at her throat—a blue stone mirroring her own eyes, a final gift from her mother. Ophelia tensed at the unusual attention. It was unsettling, out of place, and entirely too deliberate.

Aldric shifted his weight, fingertips brushing the parchment he held as though for steadiness. “Your Highness speaks harshly. I was informed your physician, Dr. Alistair, had been tending to you with utmost care.”

Ophelia let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “If his care were truly utmost, I would not be watching my health decline day by day. The man isn't even able to tell the difference between a fever and a near funeral.” 

The minister stiffened, darting a glance toward the throne. The Emperor's expression didn't shift, but the air seemed to narrow around him, dense with silence. Aldric hesitated before speaking. 

“Surely Your Highness exaggerates. His majesty appointed Dr. Alistair himself—”

“Then perhaps his majesty should know his choice is killing his daughter by inches.” A shadow of something crossed the Emperor’s eyes—gone before anyone could name it.

Ophelia pushed, seizing the opportunity. “If the physician were competent, I would be improving, not rotting away in silk sheets.” Her words echoed across the nearby marble floor, bold and unwise in any other mouth. 

She looked at the Emperor, hoping for a reaction. His gaze lifted to her, unhurried, sharp enough to cut through every layer of civility in the room. 

Then came his voice— slipping out like steel, smooth but impossible to ignore.

"Are you questioning my judgement?"