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Ijolted awake with a scream trapped in my throat, my hand instinctively flying to where Jared’s dagger had made its unwelcome home at my side. My heart slammed against my rib cage like it was trying to escape, and my body trembled with cold sweat.

There was nothing there. No dagger. No wound. No blood.

I stared at the spot, confusion clouding my mind. This wasn’t possible. I knew I had been stabbed. I could still feel the cold steel sliding in, still see Jared’s perfect smile as he twisted the blade. Wait… My eyes widened as reality shifted around me.

I was breathing. I was conscious. I wasn’t dead. The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water, shocking me fully awake and alert.

I frowned, my confusion deepening with each passing moment.

Was it all just a dream? But no dream could feel that real. The pain, the betrayal, the light fading from my eyes as Jared walked away…

No. I knew with bone-deep certainty what I had experienced—the betrayal, the blade in my flesh, Finn’s execution, Elle’s broken body after her bastard husband finished with her, Mother succumbing to the epidemic, and Father, murdered on the battlefield by Jared and King John’s machinations. Those deaths were real. Each one carved into my soul like scars that would never heal. Had my desperate plea for a second chance actually worked?

My mind racing and heart pounding, I scanned the room, trying to orient myself in this impossible moment. Each detail felt like a blow to my senses after months in that dark cell.

A dizzying mix of relief and disbelief washed over me as I drank in the sight of the four-poster bed with its heavy velvet drapes, the scent of lavender and rosemary wafting from sachets. The familiar scents brought tears to my eyes—so different from the dank mold of the prison, from the metallic tang of blood that had been my last sensation.

My room. My sanctuary. Each detail exactly as I remembered it before everything went wrong. Shelves lined with leather-bound books, their gold-leaf titles catching the morning light like old friends welcoming me home. The mahogany armoire stood guard, its polished surface reflecting a world I thought I’d lost forever. Above, the ornate ceiling with its chandelier sparkled, while blue and gold wallpaper caught the light streaming through the double doors that led to the terrace overlooking our vast gardens.

Emotion crashed over me in waves, tears spilling freely down my cheeks. I had to be sure—had to know if this miracle was real. My legs shook as I scrambled off the bed, nearly stumbling in my haste to reach the dressing room. The plush carpet beneath my feet felt foreign after months of cold stone.

The dressing room stood exactly as I remembered—luxurious sofas and armchairs, elegant dresses hanging in perfect rows. Each piece a reminder of the life I’d lived before Jared’s betrayal tore everything apart.

With trembling steps, I approached the dressing table. The face that greeted me in the mirror stole my breath—not the gaunt, hollow-eyed prisoner I’d become, but a young woman of eighteen. Raven hair fell in perfect waves, citrine eyes bright with youth, and that distinctive beauty mark under my eye. This was the face of Wren Lee, the supposed villainess of A Kingdom of Infernal Flames, before tragedy had rewritten her story.

This was my face. Before the prison. Before the betrayal. Before Jared’s dagger.

“I’ve come back,”

I whispered, the words tasting of both miracle and terror. Had that bizarre cosmic customer service actually granted my dying wish?

But there was no time for wonder, no matter how impossible this all seemed. Urgency drove me forward, my feet barely touching the ground as I flew from the room. If I truly was eighteen again, then maybe…

I paced along the hallway, each step echoing with desperate hope. My heart thundered in my chest, memories of their deaths warring with the possibility of seeing them alive again.

Mother, Father, Elle, and Finn. The names burned in my throat like a prayer.

Tears blurred my vision as I hurried down the grand stairs, barely registering the maids and footmen who bowed and curtsied with their usual “Good morning, my lady.”

Their familiar greetings, once routine, now felt like gifts I didn’t deserve.

The manor wrapped around me like an embrace as I descended into its heart. Portraits of ancestors watched my desperate flight, their painted eyes witnessing this second chance I’d been granted. The scent of beeswax and polished wood filled my lungs—so different from the dank air of that prison cell where I’d died.

My hand trembled as I pushed open the door to the boudoir, Mother’s favorite room with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden. I froze in the doorway, my heart nearly stopping at the sight before me.

There sat Lady Elanor Lee, Duchess of Argyll—my adoptive mother, alive and breathing. She was dressed all in black, her elegant form seeming lost as she stared into the distance with an expression that made my heart crack anew. When she turned to me, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, reality crashed over me like a wave.

I knew this day. God help me, I knew exactly when I’d returned to.

She beckoned me to her, and my legs nearly gave out as I crossed the room. I collapsed to my knees before her, the same way I had five years ago—and yet for me, it felt like only hours had passed since I’d last seen her alive. When she pulled me into her arms, I broke. Every emotion I’d bottled up in that cell, every ounce of grief and terror and relief poured out in racking sobs.

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