The Crown They Buried Me For

The scent of incense and lilies usually signaled a celebration, but today, they only served to mask the metallic tang of blood pooling on the marble floor.

Evelyne d’Astier knelt, her knees aching against the jagged stones of the executioner's block. Her once-exquisite silver gown, the one she had chosen specifically to please the man she loved, was now shredded and soaked in a deep, visceral crimson. Her hands were bound behind her back with coarse rope that bit into her wrists, a cruel contrast to the silk ribbons she used to wear.

She lifted her chin, refusing to let the trembling of her soul reach her lips. Through the matted hair falling over her face, she looked up at the dais.

There sat Prince Alaric.

He looked every bit like the "Ruthless Sovereign" the bards sang about. His dark eyes, once the only place Evelyne felt safe, were now as cold as the winter sea. He didn't look like a man about to execute his fiancée, he looked like a man bored by a necessary chore.

"Evelyne d’Astier," his voice rang out, deep and devoid of the warmth that had once promised her a lifetime of protection. "For the crime of high treason, for the conspiracy against the crown, and for the attempted poisoning of the Lady Seraphina... the sentence is death."

A bitter, broken laugh escaped Evelyne’s throat. Seraphina. The "delicate" cousin who had played the victim so well. The woman who had whispered lies into Alaric’s ear while Evelyne was busy trying to keep the kingdom’s finances from collapsing. Evelyne had been a pawn, a shield, and a fool. She had used her intelligence to build Alaric’s throne, only for him to use that same throne as a vantage point to watch her die.

"I loved you," she whispered, the words catching on the dry skin of her throat.

Alaric didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply raised a hand, the hand that had once held hers in the moonlight, and signaled the executioner.

"May your soul find the peace your heart lacked," he said coldly.

The heavy thud of the greataxe leaving its rest echoed through the silent courtyard. Evelyne closed her eyes. She didn't pray to the gods; the gods had abandoned her the moment she fell for a wolf in prince’s clothing. Instead, she made a silent, burning vow.

If there is a cycle to this world, if there is a shadow of justice left in the stars... let me come back. Not as a lover. Not as a bride. But as the ruin of everything you hold dear.

The air whistled. A flash of silver light. A moment of sharp, white-hot agony.....and then, nothingness.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound was rhythmic. It wasn't the sound of blood hitting marble. It was lighter.

Evelyne’s mind felt like it was encased in thick, grey wool. She expected the void, the cold embrace of the afterlife. Instead, she felt... warmth? A soft breeze tickled her skin, smelling not of lilies and death, but of jasmine and expensive beeswax.

Her eyes snapped open.

She wasn't on the cold stones. She was lying on a bed, a canopy bed draped in sheer violet silk. The morning sun streamed through a stained-glass window she hadn't seen in years.

Evelyne bolted upright, her hand flying to her neck. She expected to feel a jagged seam, the evidence of the axe's kiss. But her skin was smooth. Her throat was whole.

She scrambled out of bed, her legs tangling in the sheets, and stumbled toward the tall vanity mirror in the corner of the room. She gasped, clutching the edge of the mahogany table so hard her knuckles turned white.

The woman in the mirror wasn't the haggard, blood-stained prisoner of the dungeons.

She was young. Her skin was luminous, free of the pallor of the d’Astier prisons. Her hair, a rich chestnut, fell in healthy waves over her shoulders. Most importantly, her eyes, they weren't yet clouded by the grief of a thousand betrayals.

"Lady Evelyne? Are you awake? You’ll be late for the Spring Gala preparations!"

The door creaked open, and a young maid stepped in, carrying a basin of water. Evelyne froze.

Marie.

Marie had died three years ago in the Great Fire of the South Wing, a fire Evelyne now knew had been set by Alaric’s enemies to distract her. To see her standing there, alive and bustling, made Evelyne’s heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"What... what day is it?" Evelyne managed to ask, her voice sounding hauntingly young.

Marie giggled, setting the basin down. "My Lady, have you had a dream of the future? It is the fourteenth of May, the year of the Sapphire Moon. You’re to meet the Crown Prince at the gardens this afternoon for your formal introduction."

The Year of the Sapphire Moon.

Five years. She was back five years before her execution. She was eighteen again. This was the day she had first met Alaric, the day she had fallen into the trap of his charming smile and dark, brooding eyes.

A cold, sharp smile began to spread across Evelyne’s face. It wasn't the smile of a shy noblewoman; it was the smile of a woman who had already seen the end of the world and survived it.

"The gardens," Evelyne repeated, her voice turning like silk over steel. "Yes. We wouldn't want to keep His Highness waiting."

She looked at her hands, the hands that would eventually learn how to forge documents, how to navigate the poison of the court, and how to lead an army. This time, she wouldn't use those skills to save Alaric. She would use them to ensure that when the "Treason" occurred, it wouldn't be her head on the block.

"Marie," Evelyne said, turning to the maid with a terrifyingly calm intensity. "Bring me the black corset and the midnight lace gown. We aren't dressing to impress today."

Marie looked confused. "But My Lady, the Prince prefers pastels. He says you look like a spring flower in pink,"

"The spring flower is dead, Marie," Evelyne interrupted, her eyes flashing with a predatory light. "Today, I'd rather look like the storm that’s about to break over his palace."

As Marie scurried to the wardrobe, Evelyne sat back down at her vanity. She picked up a rouge pot, but instead of applying it to her cheeks, she stared at her reflection.

The man she loved had killed her. The kingdom she served had cheered for it.

She had been a pawn, played by a master. But she had returned with the memories of the game. And this time? She wasn't playing for love. She was playing for the crown, the one they had buried her for.

"Alaric," she whispered to the empty room. "I hope you enjoyed your peace. Because I’m coming for everything."