He Watched Me Die

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.

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