The chill of the executioner's axe was a memory etched into Elara's very soul. She'd felt the sickening thud, the abrupt severing, the final descent into darkness. Yet, here she was, lungs burning with her first breath in what felt like an eternity. But the world around her was wrong. Terribly, irrevocably wrong.
The opulent canopy bed, the familiar scent of lavender and old parchment – these belonged to her chambers years ago, before the whispers started, before the accusations flew, before the cheers of the mob turned to bloodlust. This was her room as the Radiant Saint, the kingdom's darling, not the Shadowed Saint, the pariah she had become in her final moments.
Panic clawed at her throat. Had it all been a nightmare? A cruel jest of the dying? No. The phantom ache in her neck, the lingering taste of betrayal, they were too real. This was something else. Something… more.
A glance at the ornate mirror confirmed her fears and ignited a fresh wave of disorientation. The silver hair was shorter, barely reaching her shoulders, and lacked the luminous sheen it once possessed. Her blue eyes, once beacons of unwavering faith, now held a depth of shadow she'd only glimpsed in her final, desperate moments. A faint, intricate pattern, like veins of obsidian, traced themselves around her irises, a stark reminder of the power that had bloomed within her as her life was extinguished.
Shadowed Saint. The name echoed in her mind, a bitter epitaph.
A soft knock on the door jolted her. "Lady Elara? Are you awake?" It was Martha, her most trusted handmaid, her voice younger, more vibrant than Elara remembered.
Elara's mind raced. This had to be years in the past. But how? Why?
"Yes, Martha. Just… a nightmare," she managed, her voice raspy from disuse.
"A bad one, my Lady? You were calling out in your sleep." Martha's concern was genuine, a stark contrast to the fear that had filled the eyes of those around her in her final days.
"Just… the usual anxieties," Elara replied, forcing a semblance of her old, reassuring smile. "Please, draw the curtains. I need to see the day."
As Martha bustled about, Elara's gaze fell upon the small, wooden bird figurine on her bedside table. She remembered carving it as a child, a silly little thing. It was a detail lost to the years, a testament to the authenticity of this… rewind.
The sunlight streaming through the opened curtains felt alien on her skin. The world was vibrant, full of life, blissfully unaware of the darkness that would eventually consume it. And she, Elara, the Shadowed Saint, was back to witness it all again.
But this time, things would be different. She wouldn't be the naive saint, blindly trusting in the light. She knew the shadows now, intimately. She knew the rot that festered beneath the gilded surface of Eldoria. And she knew the face of the man who had orchestrated her downfall.
Prince Kaelen.
The thought sent a shiver down her spine, a cold blend of dread and a nascent, dangerous resolve. He was younger now too, still the charismatic heir, beloved by the masses. But she had seen the calculating glint in his violet eyes, the ruthless ambition hidden beneath the charming facade.
Her execution had been swift, deemed necessary for the good of the kingdom. They had called her power a corruption, a threat. They hadn't understood. Perhaps she hadn't either, not until it was too late.
Now, armed with the knowledge of the future and the power of the shadows, Elara had a second chance. A chance to save Eldoria, yes, but also a chance for… something else. A chance to understand the obsidian bloom within her, a power born of despair and fueled by a burning desire for justice.
She would play their game, navigate their treacherous court, but this time, she would be playing by her own rules. The Radiant Saint was dead. Long live the Shadowed Saint.