Chapter 1: Ashes and Silver
Location: Evergreen Imperial Palace
The night sky bled fire.
Above the once-majestic Evergreen Imperial Palace, flames raged like the wrath of gods. Smoke choked the stars, curling high into the heavens as if begging the moon to turn its face. The smell of burning wood, scorched flesh, and blood tainted the cold night air. Sparks rained from collapsing rooftops, setting even the outer gardens ablaze.
What had once been a symbol of power and beauty—the heart of an empire—was now a battlefield drenched in betrayal and despair.
The Imperial Gardens, once carefully cultivated with rare blossoms from across the realm, had become a graveyard. Petals curled into ash underfoot. Crystal fountains ran red with blood, their soft trickle replaced by the screams of the dying.
Soldiers fought in a frenzy, not for honor or country, but for their lives. Some had once sworn loyalty to the crown; now they cut each other down without hesitation. Golden armor Smeared with crimson Blood. Lightning crackled as enchanted weapons found their mark. Screams echoed through every hall, every courtyard. The scent of roasted meat did not come from the kitchens, but from burnt corpses still twitching on the ground. And above it all, the banners of the Imperial House smoldered, curling inward as if ashamed.
Inside the shattered throne hall, the scene was even worse.
Elena lay motionless on the cold, blood-slick tiles, her once-elegant dress torn and soaked in crimson. Deep bruises marred her pale skin, and the jagged cut across her stomach oozed steadily, mixing with the pool of blood beneath her. Poison burned in her veins, dulling her strength and vision. Her silver hair—now tangled and caked with blood—spread around her like a broken halo.
Her gaze, blurry but filled with pain, locked on the two men standing before her.
Her Third uncle, Duke Harland, smiled coldly, his fine robes untouched by battle. Beside him stood her Second brother, Prince Sylas, armor gleaming under the torchlight, his blade still dripping with her blood. The two men, bound by ambition rather than loyalty, looked down on her with contempt.
"You were supposed to die during the orc campaign, Elena," Harland sneered, voice laced with mockery. " But no, you just had to survive. You just had to start poking around where you shouldn't."
Sylas laughed, cruel and bitter. "Digging into family corruption? Trying to 'fix' the empire? You've always been a foolish little dreamer. But now, your story ends here, sister."
Elena coughed violently, blood splattering from her lips as her trembling fingers reached out but there was nothing left to hold on to. The sounds of battle still raged outside, but to her, the world was shrinking, growing colder.
Tears stung her eyes, mixing with the grime and blood on her face. Her hands twitched at her side, weak and trembling. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry and her lungs struggled to draw in air. The pain in her chest was growing worse.
She had trusted them.
She had fought in the war, survived ambushes, endured sleepless nights to protect their house—their legacy. She had risked everything trying to expose the rot beneath the surface of the imperial court. And now she lay here, betrayed by her own blood.
As her vision dimmed, something caught her eye.
A soft glow.
Faint. Silver. Pulsing.
Her bracelet.
The relic she had found in the Desert ruins, buried deep beneath the sands. She had worn it ever since. its aura strange, yet comforting. Scholars had said it was dead, a relic of a time before the empire. But now, as death crept closer, it came alive.
The gemstone at its center pulsed, faster and brighter, resonating with her pain—her sorrow.
Elena's breath hitched. The silver light swelled, surrounding her body like a cocoon. The sounds of war faded. The fire stopped crackling. Even the pain… dulled. All she could hear now was a gentle hum, like a lullaby whispered by the stars.
Harland stepped back, eyes wide for the first time.
"What—what is that light?!"
Sylas raised his sword, but it was too late. The light exploded outward in a blinding flash, swallowing Elena whole. Her eyes closed as the world disappeared into silver.
Warmth.
Not the scalding heat of flame—but a soft, golden warmth.
Elena's eyes fluttered open. Her chest rose and fell slowly, peacefully. Her fingers curled into silk sheets. The scent of jasmine drifted through the air. Birdsong echoed faintly from outside the window.
She blinked.
No pain. No blood. No fire.
She was lying on a plush couch, sunlight streaming in through floor-length drapes of pale rose and gold. The walls were a delicate shade of cream, lined with gilded mirrors and portraits of imperial ancestors. Her hand instinctively reached for her side—no wound, no blood. Just smooth, unbroken skin.
"Princess, please sit still! We're almost done."
A familiar voice. A voice she hadn't heard in years.
She turned her head.
Three maids surrounded her—young, cheerful, and alive. One was brushing her silver hair with practiced strokes. Another was fastening a glittering necklace around her throat. The third was adjusting the folds of a breathtaking crimson dress embroidered with phoenix feathers.
She stared at them, heart racing.
She knew this room.
She knew this day.
This was her birthday. Her twenty-fifth birthday.
The grand celebration the Emperor had arranged—the same day her status was officially declared as a political heir. The same day every noble family had gathered to honor her… and quietly plot against her.
Elena shot to her feet, startling the maids.
"M-My lady?" one stammered. "Are you alright?"
She spun toward the mirror, its frame carved from ivory and inlaid with moonstones that shimmered faintly in the soft morning light. The reflection staring back at her was almost unrecognizable—not because it was unfamiliar, but because it was untouched by the suffering she still carried in her bones.
Her skin was flawless, pale like fresh snow, smooth and unmarred by the bruises and burns that had once covered it. There were no angry scars across her arms, no callouses on her fingers from wielding blades in secret, no remnants of poison etched into her veins. Just porcelain flesh, delicately flushed with the warmth of youth.
But Elena did not see innocence in that face—she saw what had been lost.
Her eyes locked onto her own gaze—those unmistakable golden irises, molten and bright, so radiant they almost glowed. They were the mark of the imperial bloodline, carried by the chosen few born under the twin stars of the empire. Eyes that once held wonder, curiosity, and ambition.
Now, beneath their gleam, a shadow stirred.
They were wide with disbelief, yes—but behind that shimmer, she saw ghosts. Memories. Pain. Death. In those golden eyes was the haunting reflection of a woman who had once trusted too freely, fought too bravely, and paid too dearly. Eyes that had once watched her brothers laugh… and later saw them fight against each other and even draw a blade against her.
Her silver hair cascaded around her like a curtain of moonlight, long and silken, untouched by the soot and blood that had stained it in her final hours. Even now, the handmaidens braided it with delicate fingers, weaving pearls and lotus-shaped pins through the shining strands. It shimmered with divine elegance, the unmistakable silver of the Imperial line—proof of her status, her duty, her burden.
To anyone else, she looked ethereal. A vision of imperial beauty. Her lips were soft and full, naturally tinged with rose, though parted slightly in awe and confusion. Her jaw was refined, her cheekbones high and delicate. Her figure was graceful, feminine yet strong—the body of a woman destined for rule.
But she knew better.
She knew this beauty was a lie—no, a mask. A haunting echo of the girl she had once been. The young woman who had stood for something. Who had dreamed of justice, of reform, of protecting the realm from the rot festering within its gilded walls. The girl who thought family would never betray her. The girl who had died in a pool of her own blood, poisoned, broken, and alone.
Her hand reached up, slowly, almost fearfully, brushing the smooth skin beneath her collarbone. The last time she had touched this spot, it had been torn open by steel. Her fingers trembled.
It was real.
All of it.
This was her body before the scars. This was her face before it hardened. But her soul—that had not returned unscarred.
And as the maids fussed around her, oblivious to the weight crashing down behind those golden eyes, Elena forced herself to breathe.
It had not been a dream.
She was alive.
Back in the past.
Back before the ruin. Before the corruption took hold. Before her Second uncle crowned himself Emperor in blood. Before her Third uncle Betrayal and her brother's blade piercing her stomach and leaving her dying on cold marble.
This time… she would not be blind.
This time… she would not be weak.
This time, she would become what they feared most.
Her gaze turned sharper, the tremble in her fingers stilling.
She would rewrite everything.