The blow knocked Vionna to the ground.

Pain bloomed fast—her cheek swelling, blood coating her tongue.

She reached up with shaking fingers. The moment they grazed the welt, her eyes flooded.

Theron had never struck her before. Not in this life. Not in the last.

She looked up, but tears blurred everything—just his shadow standing over her.

"My gods... Viona Vale is Princess Vionna?"

"What's she doing in a border camp?"

"I heard she chased Lord Theron for years. He was doing fine in Crownspire—until her obsession drove him out."

"If she's truly Princess Vionna... doesn't that make him her uncle? The king's sworn brother and all?"

"A disgrace to the royal house, that's what."

The voices crept from every corner, sharp as thorns.

It felt just like her wedding day in the life before.

No blessings then, either.

Only sneers.

They said she drugged him. Said she married Theron pregnant and proud.

That she trampled every rule, throwing herself at the man her father called brother.

That she was cold, cunning—that Marzella died so she could take her place.

Lies from both lives tangled in her head, buzzing like wasps.

But above it all, one voice roared through.

"Vionna, apologize to Marzella!"

She pushed herself up, cheek aflame, eyes bloodshot.

"Why should I?"

In the last life, she'd sinned. She paid. She died.

But this time?

What crime had she committed?

The wind tore through the village, sharp as blades—but she stayed standing.

She locked eyes with him.

"I won't apologize for what I didn't do."

Theron's face contorted. "You think your royal title gives you the right to bully others?"

Vionna let out a bitter laugh.

Her? Hiding behind a title?

If that were true, she wouldn't have buried her name for three years among strangers.

She'd swallowed every insult, bent under every stare—just to keep her place.

If she meant to harm Marzella, she'd have done it long ago.

But Theron wouldn't listen. His heart was chained to Marzella. Reason had no place.

Still, Vionna stood her ground.

She wouldn't bow for a lie.

"Do you want to be punished under military law?" he roared, eyes fixed on her bruised cheek.

He didn't see it.

The girl he once kept quiet and sweet in his manor—she was gone.

Before he could speak again, a voice split the air.

"Avalanche!"

"The ridge—it's coming down!"

All heads turned.

The mountain roared. Snow came crashing like the sky itself had fallen.

"Go!" Theron shouted, hoisting Marzella into his arms. In one swift motion, he mounted and galloped away, leading the retreat.

All Vionna saw was his back—vanishing fast.

The same back that once shielded her from flying arrows.

Now, that image shattered.

Like the avalanche roaring down, burying all in its path.

She was back in that final moment.

Cold sank deep into her bones.

Her heartbeat faltered. Thoughts drifted, pale and scattered.

And then—darkness.

When Vionna opened her eyes, she was back at Theron's estate.

He sat beside the bed, face tight with exhaustion.

At her stir, he finally exhaled. "You're awake."

She blinked. Was that worry?

Then the truth settled in. She was a princess. If she died at Stormrest, he'd have a hard time answering to her father.

"Marzella will be by soon," he said. "Apologize. Thank her. And stop being reckless.

"If you hadn't harassed her and stalled the group, the avalanche wouldn't have caught us. She begged the soldiers to spare you. You owe her."

He met her gaze.

"I know you still have feelings for me, but we come from different worlds. I'm nine years your senior. This—whatever you imagine—was never possible."

Vionna sank back against the pillows, her mind swimming.

Then, softly: "I understand, Uncle Theron..."

And she did.

She didn't love him anymore.

So when Marzella entered, Vionna dragged herself upright—offered the apology, the thanks.

Whatever he asked, she gave.

He told her not to return to camp.

Now that her identity was out, and the avalanche had taken lives, the blame landed squarely on her. If she returned, she'd find no kindness—only stares and sharpened words.

The rumors were already spreading.

She hadn't imagined that even with a second chance, she'd end up here again—name soiled, reputation shattered.

All she could do was hope her father wouldn't turn her away.

And pray Elsha would come.

Take her home...

But Elsha never came.

***

Vionna spent days in recovery at Theron's estate while the household buzzed with wedding plans.

No one looked her way.

She didn't care.

But the first day she felt strong enough to walk the garden path—

Someone struck her from behind.

When her eyes opened, she was tied at the edge of a cliff.

Marzella was there too, bound beside her.

Two Wildfolk stood over them, blades gleaming.

Vionna's pulse jumped.

How had it come to this?

One moment in Theron's estate... the next, a mountainside.

And Marzella—how had she survived this in the last life? Where had she gone in those vanished years...?

The wind howled through the valley, sharp and wild against Vionna's ears.

A cold thought crept in.

Marzella knew these men.

But when Vionna tried to speak, her voice crumbled. Nothing but breath lost to the wind.

Gone.

Marzella caught her confusion and smiled—thin, gleaming.

"Don't bother, Your Highness. The drug won't wear off till tomorrow. Just sit still. I'm not here to kill you. I just want to see—when it's life or death—who he'll choose."

A chill spread through Vionna's chest.

What was left to choose?

Hadn't the avalanche answered that already?

In the last life, a single lie about Marzella's death had cost Vionna everything.

Not just her life.

Lives.

Then—footsteps.

Theron appeared alone at the cliff's edge.

His eyes scanned the scene, then fixed on the Wildfolk.

"Whatever you want, we can talk. Let them go."

One of the men laughed. "Warden of the North, I didn't bring them for ransom."

Theron's gaze sharpened. "Then what?"

The brute pressed his blade closer. "Your people butchered mine. They say one of these women is your betrothed. The other—the princess you raised like blood. You can save only one. The other dies, for the honor of our dead."

He loosened the ropes just enough to send both women swaying at the cliff's edge.

Marzella turned pale. Her voice cracked.

Then she looked to Theron, weeping. "Save Princess Vionna, please! I'm only your deputy. If someone must die, let it be me.

"His Majesty won't fault you for choosing Her Highness. If I die with the baby, it's still a death with meaning."

Theron's jaw clenched.

"Let Marzella go!"

The decision struck like a blade.

The Wildfolk grinned.

Even Marzella—still shaking—let herself relax, just slightly.

They untied Marzella. She stumbled into Theron's arms, sobbing with relief.

But his gaze flicked to Vionna.

She didn't cry.

Didn't scream.

Just stared—calm. Too calm.

Something about that stillness made his chest tighten.

He'd seen it before.

A pale face in the snow. Gone before he could place it.

He shook the thought off and raised a hand to signal his hidden men.

But before the command came, weight pressed into him.

"Theron," Marzella whispered, clinging. "I thought the baby and I would never see you again..."

His arms closed around her without thinking.

Then—his eyes widened.

The rope snapped.

Vionna fell like a butterfly with torn wings, swallowed by the wind.

"Vionna—!"