I died.
At least, in my previous life.
One moment, the cold wind stung my cheeks as I stood on the rooftop, the lights of Tokyo blurring into streaks below me. The next, there was only a crushing silence.
You might think death would be dramatic, a flurry of final regrets or some profound realization. For me, it was quiet.
Just a soft thought: Maybe... finally... peace.
My name was Fujimoto Airi.
Seventeen years old. Second year in a prestigious Tokyo high school. Good grades. Polite smiles. Invisible wounds.
From the outside, I was the kind of girl teachers praised and classmates barely noticed. A good girl, they said. Neat handwriting, quiet voice, always bowing properly.
But inside? Inside, I was already a ghost.
It started small, whispers behind my back when I answered too eagerly in class. Cold glances when I showed up with thrift shop shoes while others flaunted designer brands. Forgotten invitations, laughter that stopped when I entered the room.
Then it grew.
Books stolen. Lockers vandalized. Ugly notes slipped onto my desk.
Why are you even here?
Loser.
Kill yourself.
I held on. For months, I held on.
I thought maybe if I smiled wider. Studied harder. Apologized more.
Maybe if I—
"Airi, could you stay after class?" my homeroom teacher said one rainy afternoon.
Hope bloomed for a second. Maybe someone had noticed. Maybe...
"I have had complaints," she said briskly, smoothing her expensive skirt. "You are too attention seeking. Try not to disrupt the harmony of the class."
Harmony.
Right.
My parents were not any better. They wanted grades, awards, university acceptance letters. They did not want a daughter who cried herself to sleep or threw up from panic before exams.
"Stop being weak," my father snapped once, when he found me huddled in my room. "Other kids have it harder."
Maybe they were right.
Maybe I was just... defective.
The night I died was unremarkable.
I packed my school bag as usual. Set my alarm for the next morning. Ate dinner silently while my parents talked about stocks and politics.
Then I climbed the stairs to the rooftop of our apartment building.
No one stopped me.
No one even noticed.
The city sprawled beneath me, so vast, so bright, so utterly indifferent.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me. It was freezing, and the misty rain had soaked through the thin fabric.
I did not leave a note. What could I possibly say that would matter?
I just whispered, "I am sorry," to no one in particular.
And stepped forward.
Falling did not feel like falling.
It felt like floating.
For a moment, it was almost beautiful. Weightless. Free.
Then—
Nothing.
When I opened my eyes, blinding light stabbed into them.
Pain flared through every nerve in my body. My wrists burned, bound tightly behind me. Something rough and scratchy, straw maybe, scraped against my skin.
Voices shouted around me. A heavy, suffocating heat pressed against my face.
I gasped.
The world spun into focus.
Stone walls. Chains. The heavy scent of burning wood.
Crowds. Shouting. Torches.
Where... where am I?
"Bring forth the witch!" a man roared, his voice echoing.
The crowd howled in approval.
I tried to move, but chains clanked around my wrists and ankles.
A hand yanked me upright.
"Walk, you cursed thing!" a guard spat, shoving me forward.
Staggering, confused, I stumbled toward a raised platform, a scaffold. At the center, piled high, were dry logs and kindling.
Execution, my mind whispered numbly.
They are going to burn me.
I caught sight of myself in a polished shield held by one of the guards.
I was not Fujimoto Airi.
Pale, ethereal features. Silver hair matted with blood and dirt. Eyes a haunting shade of violet. Torn, filthy noblewoman's robes clinging to a thin frame.
A girl, no, a woman, who looked like she had been dragged through hell.
And yet, there was something terrifyingly familiar in those eyes.
Me.
Somehow, impossibly, I had been reborn.
And now—
Now they were going to kill me again.
"Seraphina Valeborne," the executioner announced, his voice booming over the crowd. "Former Lady of House Valeborne, traitor to the crown, practitioner of forbidden arts, sentenced to death by fire!"
Gasps and jeers erupted.
I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, raw. I could barely form words.
I do not know this Seraphina. I am not her.
But no one would believe me. To them, I was her, the disgraced noblewoman who had dared to defy their precious crown.
"May the flames purify your cursed soul!" the priest intoned, raising a holy symbol.
The guards forced me onto the pyre. Rope scratched my wrists as they tied me to the central post.
I struggled weakly.
A man approached with a lit torch, face expressionless.
The first licks of fire touched the edges of the woodpile, crackling hungrily.
Panic surged through me, hot and wild.
No. No. No. Not again!
The crowd's roar became a dull roar in my ears. My vision blurred, tears stinging my eyes.
I did not survive one death just to die again!
I did not know who Seraphina had been.
I did not know why she, I, was sentenced.
But one thing was clear.
I would not die like this.
Not again.
A scream tore from my throat, raw, furious, desperate.
The wood ignited faster now, the heat scorching my skin. The scent of burning rope filled my nose.
Through the blinding smoke, I saw faces in the crowd, some triumphant, others indifferent.
One stood out.
A man, cloaked and hooded, watching intently.
Not cheering. Not shouting.
Just watching.
Our eyes met for a fraction of a second.
Something shifted.
The rope around my wrists, it snapped, as if cut by an unseen blade.
Shock froze me for a heartbeat.
Then instinct screamed—run!
With a strength I did not know I possessed, I ripped free from the post, stumbling through the flames. My dress caught fire, but I slapped it down with trembling hands, ignoring the searing pain.
Guards shouted. People screamed.
I crashed off the platform, landing hard on the cobbled ground. Pain exploded through my side, but adrenaline drowned it.
Get up. Move. Survive.
I staggered to my feet, heart hammering wildly.
The man in the cloak was gone.
But his presence, his intervention, was the only reason I was still breathing.
Why?
No time to think.
Boots thundered behind me.
I ran.
Ran from death. From the past. From everything that wanted to chain me down.
And for the first time, not as Fujimoto Airi.
Not even as Seraphina Valeborne.
But as someone new.
Someone who refused to be thrown beneath any crown.