ข้าเหนื่อยจะรักใครอีกแล้ว

I remember dying.

Not in the vague, dreamlike way people claim when they “almost” do—no hazy lights, no muffled voices calling me back. I remember it with a clarity so sharp it still slices through my thoughts like a blade.

I remember the warmth leaving my fingertips first, like the tide receding from a shore. I remember the metallic scent of my own blood flooding the air, clinging to my tongue with every shallow breath. And I remember—most of all—the eyes of the person who killed me.

They weren’t wild with rage or trembling with guilt. They were calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes when you finally finish a chore you’ve been putting off. A bored, almost dismissive gaze, as if my life was nothing more than an obstacle they’d been forced to deal with. That was the last thing I saw before the darkness took me.

And then… nothing. No warm light at the end of a tunnel. No reunion with lost loved ones. Just a silence so complete it was almost deafening.

I thought that was the end.

But when I woke, it wasn’t in the sterile white of a hospital room, or on a cold slab in some coroner’s basement. It wasn’t even my world anymore.

I lay on a canopy bed draped in deep crimson velvet, the fabric heavy and expensive beneath my fingertips. My hands trembled as they brushed over silk sheets, so soft they seemed to hum under my touch. A fire crackled somewhere nearby, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

And my heartbeat—steady, slow, yet somehow stronger than before—echoed in my ears. It didn’t sound like it belonged to me.

That’s when the dread set in.

I stumbled to my feet, crossing the room to the gilded mirror. The face staring back was not my own.

Skin pale enough to glow in the dim firelight. Silver hair that shimmered with hints of blue and white, catching the faintest gleam of the candles. Eyes… deep crimson, the color of wine freshly spilled across marble.

I didn’t just wake up in a different body. I woke up in a different world.

And not just any world.

One I knew far too well.

I had read about this place before—in a book called Blood and Moonlight. A gothic fantasy where ancient vampire courts ruled the night from silvered palaces, where ruthless werewolf packs prowled the wild forests, and where an uneasy truce held between fangs and claws… until it inevitably shattered.

It was a story of war. A story of betrayal. A story where love was as fatal as any blade.

And I wasn’t just in it.

I was inside the body of a girl who—if the book’s events held true—was fated to die before the first act even ended. Her death was the spark that ignited the blood feud. A single corpse to justify centuries of slaughter.

In other words… me.

Again.

I’d already died once. I wasn’t going to let it happen a second time.

Surviving here means more than just staying alive—it means learning to navigate the deadly web of politics and seduction, where every smile hides a set of fangs, and every kiss may be a prelude to betrayal. It means keeping secrets, bending rules, and making allies out of people who would gladly slit my throat if I gave them the chance.

And somewhere in the shadows—silent, patient—my killer from my first life might be here too. Waiting. Watching.

My name is Astrid.

And this time… I’ll rewrite the ending.

Even if I have to spill blood to do it.