Chapter 1: A Crimson Farewell

A visceral, jagged sensation tore through Olivia’s chest—a frigid amalgamation of grief and sheer, unadulterated horror.

She stood paralyzed, her breath trapped in a jagged, painful gasp that felt like swallowing broken glass. Her eyes were fixed upon the executioner’s dais, staring with a wide-eyed refusal to acknowledge the macabre reality before her.

There, mounted upon a cold, indifferent iron spike, was a severed head.

Those eyes, which had once burned with the intensity of piercing emeralds, were now clouded. His raven hair was now a matted, grotesque crown of crimson gore.

It was him. Matthias.

Hours earlier

The heavy iron door of the dungeon groaned open.

Two guards, indifferent to her frailty, seized Olivia by her thin arms and dragged her forward. Her wrists were raw, the iron manacles having bitten deep into her skin, leaving weeping red welts.

With a callous shove, they hurled her onto the freezing stone floor.

“Enjoy your husband’s charming company,” one of them sneered. “It’s your last night together, after all.”

Thud.

The door slammed shut, leaving behind a silence so heavy.

Slowly, painfully, Olivia pushed herself up. Her limbs trembled violently as she leaned against the icy stone for support. When she finally turned her head, her heart seemed to stop mid-beat.

He was there.

In the guttering, dim light of the cell, Matthias sat in the far corner. His piercing green eyes were fixed on her, steady despite the wreckage of his body.

He was broken. Heavy chains bound his hands, and his skin was a canvas of purple bruises and jagged lacerations. His silken clothes were now mere rags, failing to hide the wounds of a thousand lashes.

It was an impossible sight. Matthias—the man whose single word could mobilize the King’s legions—sat shackled like a common thief, waiting for the end.

Olivia opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was constricted by a suffocating mix of shame and regret.

“So… they discarded you too, didn’t they?”

Matthias’s voice was low and rasping, cutting through the silence like a blade.

“No…” she whispered, forcing a hollow, trembling smile. “My father… he hasn’t abandoned me. What nonsense are you speaking?”

Matthias let out a dry, bitter laugh that ended in a cough.

“Wake up, Olivia! You are in a cage just like I am. Tomorrow, we both face the headsman’s steel. Do you even realize the gravity of your ’loyalty’?”

The cold, hard truth finally settled in her gut. The father she had spent her life defending had tossed her aside like a shattered tool.

She had betrayed the man who shared her bed for a father who didn’t care if she drew another breath.

“Olivia… listen to me,” Matthias said, his voice dropping to a weary whisper. “We were married for three years. It was a forced union, a political knot I never wanted to tie.”

He paused, his jaw tightening.

“But I swore an oath to myself. I swore to honor that bond. I stayed faithful to you… because you were my wife. I even closed my eyes to your sins… all of them.”

His voice cracked, and a single, solitary tear escaped, tracing a path through the dried blood on his cheek.

“I defended you against the world. I truly believed you could become someone… better. But you proved them all right. You betrayed me, Olivia. Completely.”

“You were never kind to me!” Olivia screamed, her voice shaking with years of repressed resentment. “I felt like an object! A tool! You never looked at me as a wife!”

“A tool?”

Matthias’s eyes flared with a sudden, dying ember of rage. “What are you saying? Would I treat a tool with such restraint? I never laid a finger on you in anger, even as you led me to my execution. Tell me, Olivia—did I ever harm you? Did I ever lift a hand against you?”

Olivia recoiled, unable to meet his gaze.

“Even with how cruel you were to me,” he said, his voice now draped in exhaustion, “I never betrayed you… Not even in my dreams. You were always my wife. My only.”

The heavy clatter of boots returned.

“What a touching reunion,” the guards mocked. “Time’s up. Say your goodbyes.”

Matthias stood with a rattling of chains and approached her. Before she could pull away, he leaned down and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her forehead.

Olivia froze, her tears flowing unrestrained. He leaned into her ear.

“After I am gone, I hope you live in peace… and that you find your freedom.”

“Wait—”

She reached out, her fingers brushing his sleeve, but the guards ripped him away with brutal efficiency. “Enough! Be grateful we let you speak at all.”

He looked back at her one last time, a sad, haunting smile gracing his lips, and then he was gone into the dark corridor.

“Freedom?” she wondered, her heart heavy as lead. “How can I be free when I am to be executed?”

The memory dissolved as the guards gripped Olivia’s arms, dragging her toward the guillotine. The wooden planks of the stage creaked under her weight.

She looked at Matthias’s head one last time.

“It is time,” the guard barked.

As the heavy blade began its swift, whistling descent, Olivia closed her eyes. Her heart let out one final, silent scream of soul-consuming regret.

If only I could go back…

If only I could be the wife you deserved…

“Look closely at this masterpiece, dearest sister.”

A poisonous whisper slithered into her ear. Olivia didn’t need to turn to recognize the saccharine malice of Elvira’s voice.

She leaned closer. “Drink it in. Soon, your head will find its place right beside your beloved husband’s.”

“Olivia Luceron,” the emperor announced, “do you know the charges against you?”

She didn’t lift her head; she didn’t speak; she knew her crimes well.

“Your husband is guilty of treason and betraying the imperial family; therefore, you too shall be—”

“Your Majesty!” the Crown Prince intervened abruptly. “Pardon me, but there is a document that arrived late. I believe you should review it before issuing judgment.”

“What?” The emperor’s brows furrowed as he took the parchment. His expression darkened as he read its contents, anger flashing across his features before his face returned to an impassive mask.

“According to imperial law,” he declared, “and as this document bears my seal of approval, Olivia Luceron no longer belongs to the Luceron family. She is hereby returned to her original lineage.”

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd as the emperor handed the document to his minister, who read it aloud:

“I, the undersigned Duke Matthias Luceron, hereby declare that I have divorced my wife, Olivia Luceron. This decision was made amicably and with the consent of both my wife and the Emperor.”

The imperial seal gleamed unmistakably at the bottom of the page, alongside Olivia’s signature.

She couldn’t understand. How? When? But it became clear: this was Matthias’s final act of respecting her, a desperate attempt to protect the woman he had respected to his dying breath. By severing their bond, he had ensured she would not share his family’s fate.

The ministers’ cries rose in the imperial hall, demanding justice. Many accused Duke Matthias of circumventing the punishment by divorcing his wife, Olivia, before his execution. The room descended into chaos until the emperor raised his hand, silencing the uproar with his commanding presence.

He spoke in a cold, measured tone: “Since Duke Tharon, Olivia’s father, was the one to reveal the rebellion—even knowing it meant condemning his own daughter—he shall decide her punishment, as long as it is lesser than death.”

A tense silence fell over the room. Approval was evident in the nods and murmurs of the gathered nobles; the emperor’s word was law, after all.

Duke Tharon bowed deeply, a cunning smile stretching across his face. “Thank you for your trust, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice dripping with false humility. “Rest assured, I shall not waver, even if the punishment concerns my own daughter.”

The emperor gave a curt nod. “Do what you must; she is your responsibility.”

Tears, false and theatrical, glistened in the duke’s eyes as he declared, “Your Majesty, my daughter is guilty of treason most foul. I cannot forgive her audacity in attempting to betray you; thus, I have decided on a punishment befitting her crime.”

All eyes turned toward him, their anticipation palpable. Olivia stared at her father, disbelief clouding her expression.

“Her head shall be shaved, her breasts removed, and she will be paraded half-naked through the streets of the empire,” he announced coldly, his voice devoid of any paternal compassion. “Let her serve as a living example to those who dare think of betraying the emperor.”

The chamber erupted in gasps. Even the emperor, a man infamous for his mercilessness, seemed momentarily taken aback by the sheer cruelty of the decree. But his promise to let Tharon decide had been made, and he would not go back on his word.

“Very well,” the emperor finally said, his tone impassive. “As the duke has decreed, so shall it be. Begin the punishment.”

Olivia stood frozen, her face drained of all color. Her legs refused to move, her mind unable to process the horror unfolding around her. The guards took her by the arms and began dragging her away.

The punishment was carried out with brutal efficiency. Her platinum blonde hair, once her greatest pride, was shaved down to her scalp. Then, with a searing blade, they mutilated her, removing her breasts. Her screams echoed through the stone walls, a sound that could chill even the hardest of hearts.

When they began tearing away her upper garments, leaving her clad only in her skirt, she fought back with the last remnants of her strength. Tears streamed down her face as she pleaded, her voice trembling with desperation. Her body had only ever been seen by Matthias, and now it was to be exposed to the jeering eyes of the crowd.

The maids tasked with stripping her were weeping themselves, their pity evident, but they had no choice. At last, Olivia was forced outside, half-naked and humiliated, into the bustling streets of the empire.

The sight was grotesque: a woman with a shaven head and a mutilated chest, blood staining her skin, stumbling through the streets like a broken doll. Children threw stones at her, laughing and calling her a monster. Women turned away, averting their gazes in horror.

Her soul felt as though it had fled her body, leaving her an empty shell. As she staggered aimlessly, a crimson cloak suddenly draped over her shoulders. She looked up in confusion, wondering who dared defy the punishment.

With trembling hands, she pulled the cloak away, knowing the punishment would only be repeated if she covered herself, but the figure beside her reached out and wrapped it back around her.

“Don’t remove it.”

She raised her eyes to meet those of her unlikely savior: Crown Prince Kyle. His face was streaked with tears, his expression a mixture of anguish and rage. He unsheathed his sword, its edge glinting in the sunlight, and pressed it against her throat.

“Sister,” he whispered hoarsely, “you’re enduring something worse than death. Do you give me permission to end your suffering?”

Her gaze softened as she looked at him. His question pierced through the haze of her agony, grounding her for a fleeting moment.

“Kyle…” Her voice cracked. “If you do this, your father will punish you. The emperor will never forgive this defiance.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t care. Just answer me.”

For the first time in their lives—and perhaps the last—he spoke to her as a brother, not as a prince. Her trembling hand reached up to touch his face, wiping away the tears that streamed down his cheeks.

“My little brother…” she murmured. “Yes, end this for me. Please. If I were given another chance, I’d be a better wife… a better sister.”

Kyle kissed her hand gently, his own shaking. With a swift, merciful strike, he ended her torment.

He wrapped her lifeless body in his red cloak and cradled her in his arms, his anguished cries echoing through the streets. For the first time in years, Olivia had found peace—but at a cost that left her brother broken.

She surfaced slowly. Her lids fluttered open, and her gaze snagged on a stark white ceiling—a surface both intimately familiar and strangely alien. A cold, insidious thought slithered into her consciousness: “Is this hell? Surely, I could not have earned heaven, not after the ledger of my life had been tallied.”

A frantic confusion seized her, driving her to bolt upright from the bed. Her blue eyes, wide and disheveled, swept the room in desperate, darting movements. Everything was achingly the same—her old room, the furniture a stagnant echo of the past.

In a desperate bid for solid ground, she raised a hand and punched her own cheek, the sharp, electric sting grounding her like a brutal slap from reality. She lunged toward the tall, gilt-edged mirror, then froze, a tableau of terror, as if staring at her own ghost.

Her reflection stared back: wide, luminous eyes, skin impossibly smooth, and platinum hair that cascaded like a silken waterfall over her shoulders.

The sight was a monstrous, beautiful lie. It couldn’t be true. Over and over, her fingers traced the contours of the face, a terrified test of its reality. Then, with an almost feral instinct, she loosened the neck of her thin nightgown, her gaze sweeping downwards to inspect her body. A shock, cold and violent as a sudden storm, coursed through her.

“This is impossible. This is no mere dream.”

She pressed her palm hard against her cheek, the skin already reddening, the vivid crimson mark of her waking etched into her flesh.

A soft, hesitant knock at the door shattered the crystalline silence of her thoughts. A faint, almost fearful maid’s voice followed:

“My Lady, are you stirring? I have come to assist you. May I enter?”

She, though reeling, forced a ruthless clarity upon her scattered mind. Whatever this impossible reality was, she had to meet it. Her voice, though possessing a residual tremor, was tinged with the icy sharpness that had once defined her being.

“Come in.”

The maid slipped inside, bowing with a submissive deference that was sickeningly familiar.

“My Lady, the bath is drawn and ready. Shall we proceed?”

Olivia’s gaze swept over the girl, a flash of inherited disdain lingering in the habitual set of her features. She gestured dismissively.

“Just leave.”

The maid turned to retreat, but Olivia’s voice, now a commanding whip-crack, stopped her cold.

“Wait. What year is it today?”

“The year is 1879, My Lady.”

At last, the truth, cold and staggering, settled upon her. She stared into the mirror again, her lips forming a silent, disbelieving prayer. She whispered to her reflection, a breathy sound of impossible realization.

“I… I can’t believe it. Have I truly returned to the time before my death?”

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