"Burn the witch."
The words rang through the grand square like a death knell. Cold. Unforgiving.
Empress Lysandra Vaelion stood on the pyre, the chains around her wrists digging into her skin, yet she did not flinch. She would not give them the satisfaction.
Snow drifted from the heavens above, each flake falling like a tear for the death that was about to unfold. The fire crackled, its heat already rising, yet the air felt colder than ever.
From the high balcony, Emperor Kaelith, her husband, stood watching. His face was a mask of cold indifference. Beside him, her half-sister Miren, her eyes alight with a gleam of victory, wore Lysandra's crown as if it were her own.
The crowd below was restless, a sea of faces uncertain of what to believe. But Lysandra knew the truth. They had all been fooled. She had been the victim of a scheme too twisted to fathom, orchestrated by those she had trusted the most. And now, they would pay.
Her voice rang out, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.
"You think this is the end?" she called out, her tone steady but sharp. "You think fire can silence me?"
The flames at her feet flickered in response as if answering her challenge. Her golden eyes burned with defiance.
"I was betrayed by those I loved. A husband who pretended to care, a sister who wore my face, a knight sworn to protect me. Today, you burn a woman but what rises from these ashes will be your doom."
She raised her chin to the heavens, her gaze unwavering.
"I curse you, Kaelith. I curse you all. In this life or the next. I will return. And I will make you wish you had left me to die."
The torch fell.
The flames roared.
Her last breath was a vow.
When she opened her eyes again, it was not fire she saw, but earth cold, solid, and unyielding.
A child's hands gripped the soil. A broken name whispered in the wind.
She had returned.