Chapter 3: The Voice in Her Head
Elira awoke in her bed, her skin slick with sweat and her heart pounding in her chest. She pressed her palms against her eyes, attempting to chase away the vivid images of her nightmare—no, her memory. The gallows. The crowd's jeers. The cold steel of the blade in Caelan's hands. Her throat tightened, and she gasped for air, the familiar sensation of death wrapping around her chest like chains.
But the cold faded.
The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, brushing against her skin like a gentle whisper. She was alive. Not a corpse discarded in the royal graveyard, not a ghost haunting the walls of the palace. Alive. Breathing. And with her heartbeat came clarity.
She remembered everything.
The betrayal. The execution. The divine voice. The system.
"You have been granted a second chance," the voice had said. "The price is steep, but you will find your way, Goddess Vessel. Rewrite your destiny. Uncover the truth. Survive the empire's betrayal."
Elira sat up, her fingers brushing the cool sheets as if to prove to herself this wasn't a dream. Her gaze dropped to her wrist. A silver bracelet shimmered there—delicate and unfamiliar. As her fingers grazed its surface, a wave of cold energy surged through her body.
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[MISSION LOG ACTIVATED]
[Mission 1: Survive your execution - COMPLETE.] [Mission 2: Awaken your divine bloodline.] [Mission 3: Claim the empire.]
Her heart skipped a beat. The words hovered before her eyes in shimmering silver light before fading into nothing. This was no illusion.
The system was real.
And it had marked her.
But what did it mean to be a "Goddess Vessel"? What divine blood ran through her veins, and how could she possibly awaken it?
She rose from the bed on trembling legs and walked to the window, pulling the curtains aside. The city outside—Velouria—was just as she remembered. Majestic towers of white stone and golden trim gleamed under the morning sun. The scent of fresh bread wafted through the air, and the faint clatter of carts echoed from the markets below. Life was moving on, oblivious to the girl who had died and returned.
But Elira was no longer the same.
A new voice—familiar but colder—echoed in her mind.
"You must complete your missions to unlock your full potential. Only then will you stand at the top. Your first task is survival. Do not fall for the same trap twice."
Survival.
That had been the mistake. She had believed in Caelan, trusted him, loved him. And he had raised the blade without flinching.
A single tear slid down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away.
Instead, she let it fall.
She would mourn the girl who had died. Elira Celestine—the gentle, trusting daughter of the House of Veir—was gone. What remained was something else. Something forged from betrayal and divine intervention.
The door creaked open.
"Elira?" came a soft voice.
It was Miriam, her handmaiden. The girl's freckled face peeked into the room, her eyes filled with relief. "Thank the stars. You're awake."
Elira nodded slowly. "I am."
Miriam stepped in, carrying a silver tray of tea. "You've been asleep for nearly two days. They were worried you caught something."
"Not something," Elira murmured. "Someone."
"Pardon?"
Elira shook her head, accepting the tea with a faint smile. "Nothing. Just a strange dream."
Miriam hesitated. "There's... been a summons. From the palace. The crown prince has requested your presence."
Elira's hand froze around the cup.
Caelan.
So soon?
She took a slow breath. "Then I suppose I must go."
Miriam looked uncertain. "You don't have to. Your father can decline—"
"No," Elira said firmly. "If Caelan wishes to see me, I will oblige."
She had to face him. Sooner or later. Better now, when she was still raw and angry—when the memory of the blade was fresh.
Because this time, she wouldn't flinch.
This time, she would smile.
And plot.
And endure.
And when the time came, she would repay the betrayal with interest.
---
Chapter 4: The Cold Prince's Smile
The grand palace of Velouria stood as a testament to the empire's power. Gilded spires reached toward the sky, and marble floors gleamed with the reflection of chandeliers strung with enchanted crystals. Yet, no matter how many times Elira had walked these halls, today they felt foreign—like a tomb masquerading as a throne room.
The guards at the entrance bowed as she passed, their eyes flickering with curiosity. Elira's steps were measured, her face carefully composed into polite indifference.
The court was already in session when she entered the hall.
Golden-robed nobles gathered in quiet clusters, sipping from jeweled goblets and exchanging hollow pleasantries. But the moment Elira stepped across the threshold, silence rippled through the crowd.
She felt their eyes on her.
They remembered the last time she stood here. She had knelt before the crown prince, accused of treason. She had wept, pleaded, protested her innocence. And he had condemned her.
Elira's fingers curled into fists at her side.
She would not cry again.
On the dais at the far end of the hall stood the man she had once loved. Crown Prince Caelan Lucien Thorne. Tall. Regal. Impossibly beautiful. His raven-black hair was swept back, revealing his sharp jawline and piercing silver eyes. He wore his royal tunic like armor, trimmed in black and gold, a sapphire pin clasped at his throat.
He looked like a god.
A cold, merciless god.
"Elira," he said, descending the steps toward her with measured grace. "You've recovered."
She curtsied slowly. "Your Highness."
There was a long pause as they studied each other. For a moment, Elira thought she saw something in his gaze—hesitation, confusion, recognition—but it was gone before she could name it.
"You look well," Caelan said at last, the corner of his mouth tilting into a smile.
It was a lie. She had lost weight. Her cheeks were pale. Her eyes were shadowed by sleep and secrets.
But she returned the smile. "And you still speak like a diplomat."
The court murmured at her audacity. Caelan's smile deepened.
"You've changed," he said.
"So have you," she replied.
He stepped closer. Too close. She could smell the faint scent of sandalwood on his clothes, feel the heat of his body, hear the steady rhythm of his breath.
"I summoned you," he said, "because your presence has been missed. The empire thrives when all its pillars stand tall."
And when one falls, you cut it down, she thought bitterly.
"I'm honored to be considered a pillar," she said instead.
Their eyes locked. Around them, the court faded. Time seemed to bend, twist, loop back upon itself. She was there again—kneeling before him, crying out as the blade came down.
But this time, she didn't kneel.
This time, she stood.
"Would you walk with me?" Caelan asked.
Elira hesitated. Then nodded.
They walked through the royal gardens, silent at first. The air was thick with jasmine and tension.
"You've surprised me, Elira," Caelan said after a while. "You were always strong. But this... this is different."
"You taught me well."
He looked at her sharply. "Did I?"
"You taught me not to trust too easily."
His smile flickered.
"You've changed," he said again, softer this time. "And yet..."
She tilted her head. "And yet?"
He stopped walking. Turned to face her.
"There's something in your eyes I don't recognize."
"Perhaps," she said, stepping closer, "because the girl you once knew died."
His breath caught.
She smiled. "But don't mourn her. I don't."
And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving the crown prince standing among the roses, alone with the cold echo of his own smile.