The fourth Beginning

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.

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