Ch. 5 - The Witch, The Angel, and The Rose

That night,

Duskbane Estate.

[Rina P.O.V]

The air inside the Western Wing felt warmer now, thick with the faint, comforting scent of burning sage. The butler had lit the protective wards, and the storm that had moved on from the cemetery left the world outside washed clean, smelling of wet earth and stone.

When I first stepped into Lumira’s room, my jaw almost dropped. It wasn't just a bedroom; it was a sanctuary carved from silence and old magic. Moonlight slanted through tall arched windows draped in silver-threaded curtains, casting slow-moving shadows across the polished marble.

The ivory four-poster bed was an actual throne: its frame etched with gold filigree and vine motifs. The canopy was sheer velvet, tinted a crystal purple that caught the lamplight like spilled ink.

I was slumped against the velvet headboard, every bone in this corpse-body aching with a heaviness that felt deeper than mere fatigue. My limbs were lead. My skin was still clammy from the effort of clawing myself back to the land of the living. The sheets beneath me shimmered faintly, with runes for recovery woven discreetly into the threads.

If not for the girl bustling about my bedside, I wouldn’t have managed to lift my head.

Seraphina Dove Angelis - Sera, as everyone called her - was perched on a stool beside the bed. Her soft golden curls glowed faintly in the lamplight as she hummed, carefully dabbing water from my freshly washed, long silver hair. Each motion was gentle, as though she feared breaking me with a single wrong stroke.

"You don't have to fuss so much," I murmured, my voice low and raw.

"Yes, I do," Sera replied, her voice surprising me with its quiet strength. "You scared me half to death today. Everyone else was looking at you like… like you were something cursed, but I know better. You came back, and that means something. Besides, you deserve to be taken care of."

I closed my eyes, letting myself lean into her care. Rina Vale, the ordinary human fangirl, was gone. I was now Lumira Duskbane, the villainess written to perish in disgrace. Yet as my hair was gently blotted dry, I felt something rare: I was being cherished.

I remembered from the novel that the original Lumira was ruthless and cruel, the perfect foil to the heroine Selena. Yet there was always one strange exception. Lumira tolerated no rivals, but she had protected those who were weak or mocked in Hauntspire High.

And none had been more mocked than Seraphina Dove, the "chubby little angel" always targeted by Selena’s glittering circle. In the book, Lumira had made Sera her underling, standing between her and the cruel taunts of the socialites.

Now, in this second life, it was Sera who was protecting me.

"Everything changed after you died," Sera began softly. Her hands stilled in my hair. "After your death, the people you thought were your friends… they didn't even wait for the soil to settle over your coffin. Ivy Thornfield led them straight to your chambers to strip it bare. They took all your jewelry, your gowns. All of it. And then they joined Selena’s faction. Just like that."

I didn’t flinch. Hearing it from Sera’s mouth, watching the genuine anguish darken the girl’s wide blue eyes, gave the betrayal a sting even my foreknowledge could not dull.

"You’re… not surprised?" Sera seemed startled by my calm.

"I saw it coming," I said quietly. "People like Ivy Thornfield don't know how to stand on their own. They only cling to whatever light shines the brightest."

Sera blinked at me, her eyes widening before she slowly nodded.

"I suppose you’re right. Still, it hurt to watch. And it wasn't just them. Your distant relatives pressured the Council to announce the Ritual of Succession a day after your burial. Those pompous, greedy pigs tried to strip the estate bare. If it hadn't been for your grandma and the butler, they would have emptied the treasury too."

My jaw tightened. I pictured the scene: the cousins circling the corpse, desperate to snatch a piece of the Duskbane legacy.

"Thank you, Sera. Truly."

"Y-you don't have to thank me!" The little angel’s cheeks flushed bright pink.

"Not everyone would," I replied softly. "But you did... and that makes you my best friend."

Sera’s breath caught. Her round face crumpled into something radiant. She let out a small, squeaky laugh, beaming so brightly that I almost forgot my exhaustion. For now, I had an ally... and tomorrow, I had a death sentence to face.

---

Moments later,

The clock in the hall downstairs chimed a deep, resonant two o'clock in the morning. Inside the grand room, the candles were dead, leaving only the faint, angry orange glow of the dying embers in the hearth.

I lay beneath the heavy, purple velvet covers. I listened to the soft, rhythmic breathing beside me. Seraphina slept like a blessed thing, her golden curls fanned across the linen pillows. Her small hand rested loosely over my arm - a featherlight weight that felt like a necessary anchor.

If only I could sleep that easily again…

I stared up at the frescoed ceiling. Waking from the grave had fundamentally altered my perception of time. Every second now felt sharper.

Careful not to shift the mattress, I eased myself out of the bed. My bare feet met the cool, polished black marble floor. I moved with a preternatural quiet.

At the far wall stood a seamless stretch of ivory stone. I paused before it. It was engraved with faint, almost invisible sigils. Only a powerful Duskbane—or someone who had read the Special Collector’s Edition: Grimoire of the Antagonist—would recognize the pattern.

In my previous life as Rina, I hadn't just read the story; I had obsessed over the technical lore appendices the author posted on their blog.

One specific post, "The Architecture of the West," had detailed exactly how Lumira hid her forbidden artifacts. The author had written it as a riddle: The daughter of the West speaks not of love, but of ownership, in the tongue of the first storm.

I lifted my palm, pressing it flat against the cold stone, and whispered the Words of Verification I had practiced in my head a thousand times as a fan.

"Aethelred mihi. Sanguis mihi. Locus iste meus est. (My will is my own. My blood is my own. This place is mine.)"

The runes flared to life with a soft, controlled silver and purple glow.

"Thank goodness the author’s lore was accurate," I breathed out.

Behind that wall lay the true heart of my legacy: forbidden grimoires, relics from the First Witch Wars, and the mirror wrapped in silver chains. I didn't need the power tonight. I simply needed the assurance of its survival.

Turning from the vault, I moved to the French doors. The night air rushed in - cold, sharp, tasting of rain-soaked earth and ozone.

I stepped onto the iron balcony. Silver hair whipped around my face.

"I have returned."

That was all. No vow. Just fact, whispered to the dark.

On the railing where my hand had been: a single rose. Deep purple, almost black. The air around it hummed.

No one should breach these wards.

My fingers trembled as I reached for it. The thorn bit. A spark - purple, sharp as pain. I hissed. Crimson welled across my fingertip.

Then it vanished. Sucked into the dark tissue.

The rose pulsed once, deeper.

I spun, scanning the gardens. Nothing moved.

Then - red eyes. Watching from the shadows below, for a second, before disappearing.

I carried the rose inside. Laid it beside the lamp. Sera slept on.

A whisper brushed my ear: "Welcome back, Witch."

I spun, but there was no one. The thorn mark glowed faintly violet, pulsing with my heartbeat, like a brand.

I sat on the edge of the bed. In the novel, Lumira was hated, but never hunted like this. Not by something that could slip through ancestral wards without a sound.

The plot was no longer a map. It was a dark forest, and something with red eyes was waiting. I lay back, pulling the covers up. The trial was four hours away.

And for the first time in two lives, I was truly, deeply afraid.