Chapter 8: The Chains of the Past
Seraphina sat on the edge of her grand canopy bed, fingers brushing against the embroidered silk sheets. The chamber was as she remembered—lavish, adorned with gold and crimson, but now it felt different. The air held the scent of burning incense, the same scent she had once associated with comfort. Now, it felt suffocating.
She was back.
The realization settled heavily in her chest. She had been betrayed, murdered. Yet here she was, her body intact, her heart still beating. She touched her neck instinctively, expecting the ghost of a blade's cold kiss, but there was nothing.
She stood, walking toward the tall mirror by the window. The reflection staring back at her was hauntingly familiar—long, raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders, golden eyes gleaming like molten fire. There was no blood, no sign of the suffering she had endured in her final moments. She was as she had been before.
Before the betrayal.
Before the fall.
A knock on the chamber door jolted her from her thoughts. The sound was firm, commanding. Her fingers twitched at her sides. It was too soon. She wasn't ready to face them yet. But she had no choice.
"Come in," she called, her voice steady, betraying none of the storm inside her.
The door creaked open, and a tall, imposing figure stepped inside. Duke Alistair Vaelmont—her father's most trusted noble, and one of the few who had stayed by her side even when the empire turned against her. He looked the same—cold, unreadable, yet beneath that hardened exterior, Seraphina knew there was loyalty.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing.
Seraphina's fingers curled slightly. She was not an Empress yet. That title belonged to the past. To the Seraphina who had been naive enough to believe in love, to trust those who had sworn fealty.
"What is it, Duke Vaelmont?" she asked, keeping her tone measured.
The duke studied her for a moment before speaking. "The Council is demanding your presence. They say there are urgent matters to discuss regarding your upcoming ascension."
Seraphina tilted her head slightly. "My ascension?"
"The Emperor is gravely ill," Alistair explained, his sharp eyes never leaving hers. "It has been decided that you must prepare to take the throne."
A cold chuckle escaped her lips. How ironic. In her past life, she had fought to prove herself worthy of the throne. Now, it was being handed to her on a silver platter.
"And my brother?" she asked. "What of him?"
Alistair's expression darkened. "Prince Aurelius has been growing restless. He still believes the throne belongs to him."
Of course he does.
Seraphina remembered how it had played out before. How Aurelius had schemed against her, whispering poison into the ears of the nobles, manipulating their fears. She had been too slow to act then, too blinded by the illusion of family.
She would not make the same mistake twice.
"Very well," she said, stepping forward, her silk robes whispering against the marble floor. "Let the Council wait. I will face them soon enough."
Alistair hesitated for a brief moment before bowing again. "As you command, Your Highness."
As the door shut behind him, Seraphina turned back to the mirror.
She would play their game.
But this time, she would be the one holding the dagger.