Ashara didn't sleep the night she met Ezekiel in the northern tower. She lay awake in the hollow silence of her old chambers, watching the moonlight etch silver lines across the cold floor. The room felt wrong—too clean, too new. This was not the chamber she had died in, not exactly. The tapestries hadn't yet faded. The scent of violets still lingered in the cushions. The bed hadn't been scorched to ash.
And neither had she.
The knowledge lay heavy on her chest: seven days. That was all the time she had before history crushed her again. Before the nobles smiled with wine-stained lips while voting her into oblivion. Before the priests lit the pyres with holy chants. Before the knife of betrayal slid once more between her ribs.
But not this time.
At dawn, a black-and-gold raven arrived at her window. It bore the sigil of the Temple of Vireth: the open eye. The note was thin parchment, marked in red wax.
"The Eye sees what others deny. Come alone. Come masked. Midnight. The Inner Sanctum."
Ashara burned the note and crushed the ash between her fingers.
Midnight. The Temple.
Ashara walked cloaked and veiled beneath the towering spires of the city's holiest ground. The High Temple of Vireth was silent, save for the soft crackle of blue fire in iron sconces. Gold-leaf murals of the First Prophets loomed overhead, their painted eyes seeming to follow her every step.
She reached the Inner Sanctum—a circular chamber built entirely of black marble. Seven obsidian columns ringed the space. At the center stood a shallow pool, its surface still as a mirror. Above it, suspended by unseen means, hung a single bell of translucent glass.
A voice echoed.
"You wear a dead woman's face, Empress."
Ashara didn't flinch.
The High Priest Caelen stepped from behind a column, robes trailing like ghostlight. His face was older than she remembered—lined, pale, his once-dark beard laced with silver.
But his eyes... his eyes hadn't changed. Still piercing. Still ancient.
"You knew," she said softly.
"No," he corrected, "I remembered. There is a difference."
Ashara stepped toward the pool. "How much do you remember?"
"Enough to tremble."
He raised a hand. The surface of the water rippled. Visions flickered: a younger Ashara on her knees, flame licking her gown, lips silently moving in defiance. Nobles watching. A shadowed figure pulling strings behind them all.
Ashara swallowed. "You saw it all."
"A fragment of it," Caelen said. "The threads of fate twist, but sometimes, they knot in such a way that the weave remembers."
"Why send for me?"
"Because you are not the only one who returned."
The bell above them chimed once—a sound that rang in the bones more than the ears.
Ashara tensed. "Who else?"
Caelen looked grave. "Three souls reborn. One seeks to restore. One seeks to control. One... seeks to consume."
"Which am I?"
He gave no answer.
When Ashara emerged from the sanctum, the night air bit sharp against her skin. The moon had dipped low, and with it, a chill set in her spine.
Back in her quarters, she found Ezekiel waiting.
He had no right to be there. No summons. But she felt no anger.
He stood by the hearth, arms crossed, gaze pinned to the fire. He looked up when she entered.
"You were seen entering the Temple," he said. "Disguised or not, it'll raise questions."
"Let them question. They'll waste time while I move."
Ezekiel studied her. "What did the priest say?"
Ashara hesitated. Then:
"Others returned. I'm not the only thread unraveled."
A beat of silence. Then, she stepped closer, pulling a scroll from her sleeve.
"The priest showed me something. This symbol—" She unrolled it, revealing a sigil: an open eye split by a dagger.
Ezekiel went still. "That's the mark of the Black Hand."
"Traitors," she said. "Assassins hidden in court."
"You think they killed you?"
"No," she said darkly. "I think they orchestrated the betrayal. And they'll do it again."
Ezekiel stepped forward. "Then let me find them."
Ashara shook her head. "Not yet. We don't know who wears their mark. They blend too well."
He frowned. "So what do we do?"
"We bait them."
That night, in a room hidden behind false walls, Ashara lit a single black candle. The scent of myrrh filled the space. She unrolled another scroll—this one written in her own hand, from the past life.
Words only she knew. Secrets only she had buried.
As the candle burned low, something flickered in her mind. A whisper. A shimmer.
"System Initialized..."
Her heart stilled.
_"Fate Branches detected: [3]. Access Limited. Future Event Nodes locked behind Authority Level: Sovereign."
A glowing interface shimmered before her eyes, unseen to the world. Three faint paths. Three blurred choices.
Path One: The Fire Again
Outcome: Death. Repeat. Loop.
Path Two: Crown of Lies
Outcome: Survival. Betrayal. Tyrant.
Path Three: The Wolf's Oath
Outcome: Love. Ruin. Rebirth.
Ashara stared.
And then smiled.