Chapter 18 When the Script Starts to Bleed
They're not waiting.
The realization doesn't strike like lightning. It seeps in slowly, quietly, as poison diluted just enough that it doesn't burn at first. It settles in my chest, heavy and cold, until my breath starts to feel too shallow for my lungs.
I stand alone in my chambers, long after the courtyard has been scrubbed clean.
Long after the blood has been washed from the stones, long after servants have whispered themselves hoarse about bravery and horror and the Queen who fought like a demon. Long after the palace has decided very carefully to pretend none of it happened.
But my room still smells like iron.
No matter how wide the windows are thrown open, the night air carries it back in. Smoke from torches. Sweat. Blood. The ghost of violence clinging to fabric and skin.
They're not waiting four more years.
In my first life, there was time.
In my second life, there was ignorance.
This time?
Steel came for my throat in my sleep.
That is not patience.
That is fear.
I press my palms against the cold stone of the window ledge and stare into the darkness beyond the walls. Somewhere out there, the city sleeps. Children curl against their mothers. Bakers rise early. Guards shift on watch, convinced they've now done their duty.
They believe the danger has passed.
I know better.
Assassins are not sent unless someone is desperate.
Someone wants me gone now.
The question twists inside me, sharp and relentless:
Who?
My sister?
Alexander?
Or someone I don't even know yet?
I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe slowly, deliberately, the way I was trained when panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. But memory is louder than discipline.
In my first life, they waited until my wedding.
A goblet lifted in celebration.
A smile across the table.
Venom is sliding into my veins like liquid fire.
Elegant. Quiet. No blood. No witnesses brave enough to speak.
In my second life, they waited until the crowd was ready.
Until whispers became certainty.
Until accusations hardened into truth.
Until my execution felt deserved by the people screaming for my head.
That time, they wanted spectacle.
This time?
Masks in my dark.
Blades in my bed.
No ceremony. No patience.
That alone tells me everything.
Something has gone wrong.
No worse.
Something has gone differently.
I turn from the window and pace the room, bare feet whispering over the floor. Each step sends a dull ache up my leg, a reminder of the fall, the fight, the way my body hit stone hard enough that I should be limping worse than I am.
Pain grounds me.
It reminds me I survived.
But survival does not mean safety.
I stop near the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looks nothing like the girl who died.
Hair loose and wild from sleep and battle. A bruise was blooming dark along my ribs. A bandage on my shoulder is already seeping red. My eyes look too sharp, too awake, like something feral has learned how to wear a crown.
By now, my sister would already have a title.
Land.
Gold.
Influence.
I gave it to her myself.
I remember the way she smiled when I placed the papers in her hands. The way she cried and called me generous. The way she promised she would always stand by me.
This time, she has nothing.
No lands.
No title.
No authority beyond what blood alone affords her.
And blood, I am learning, means very little.
In the past, Alexander would have been my husband.
The ring would sit heavy on my finger. His name is bound to mine in ink and law. The crown was forced to share space with him whether I wanted it to or not.
This time, he is only my fiancé.
Frustrated. Cornered. Pressing.
Men like Alexander do not respond well to doors closing.
In the past, my parents would be here.
My mother would walk the halls as if she belonged there, steadying nervous nobles with gentle words.
My father would sit in council chambers, mediating disputes before they became weapons.
This time, I sent them away.
I told myself it was protection.
I told myself distance would keep them alive.
But now their absence leaves political gaps, emotional gaps, vacant spaces ambitious people rush to fill.
And there are others.
Faces appearing in court that should not be here yet.
Men who, in my memory, rose years after my death. Women who benefited from my execution. Houses that gained favor only when my name was erased.
They're here now.
Watching.
Adjusting.
Learning me.
I stop pacing and let out a bitter laugh that echoes too loudly in the room.
So much for knowing the future.
Knowing the ending does not mean knowing the path.
The events are the same.
The poison still exists.
The accusations still loom.
The execution still waits somewhere in the dark, sharpening itself.
But the people are different.
Their actions are different.
Their timing is different.
And that is far more dangerous than ignorance.
Then there is Dante.
My breath stutters.
Dante is wrong.
Not wrong in the way men like him usually are, cruel, sharp, unrepentant.
Wrong in the way a star appearing in the wrong season is bad.
In my life, I remember, he didn't come for another two years.
Two full years.
And when he did, he barely looked at me.
It took him six months to even greet me properly.
A year before, we spoke more than what was required by diplomacy.
Another year before we became... something unspoken. Something dangerous.
Before the accident.
Before the kiss that was never meant to happen.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, elbows braced on my knees, hands clasped tight enough to hurt.
I remember it too clearly.
The way it happened by mistake was too close, too human. The way the air shifted between us, like the world had inhaled sharply and forgotten how to exhale.
The way his hand lingered at my waist for half a second too long.
The way his eyes darkened with something like hunger and fear.
And then
He vanished.
No word.
No warning.
Months of silence.
I thought he was dead.
I thought I had imagined everything.
Until he came back.
And i was in chains.
Before him, like an animal—bruised, bloodied, defiant even then. Refusing to kneel properly even while bound.
The memory slices deep, sharp enough that my chest tightens.
And now he's here early.
Not cautious.
Not distant.
Not silent.
Watching me from the trees. Mocking my fiancé. Speaking to me like fate already has its claws in us.
Why?
I rub my face slowly, exhaustion creeping in around the edges of my anger.
Is knowing the future even useful anymore?
I used to believe knowledge was power.
But power assumes control.
And control assumes the pieces stay where you expect them to.
I have changed too much.
I spared men I once ignored.
I executed men I once would have judged quietly.
I denied titles.
Delayed marriages.
Sent my parents away.
Every choice ripples outward.
Every ripple fractures something I thought was fixed.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling, watching shadows move as torches flicker outside.
Maybe this is the truth I didn't want to face:
The future is no longer something I can follow.
It's something I have to fight.
Someone wants me dead now.
Which means I am dangerous now.
But danger draws eyes.
I count my enemies again.
My sister
resentful, ambitious, smiling too easily. A woman who once loved me. Or pretended to.
Alexander
proud, entitled, desperate. A man who believes power belongs to him because he can almost touch it.
And the ones I don't see yet
the nobles who benefited from my death,
the families who rose when I fell,
The shadows are waiting to move once I slip.
I am just a piece in their game.
I am the board overturning.
I close my eyes, letting the ache in my body remind me I am still alive.
Maybe this is the cruelest part of all:
Either way, they have made one fatal mistake.
They showed their hand too early.
And this time—
I won't wait quietly for the blade.