Chapter 1

The day Beatrice Cornwall died, the first snow fell on Crown City.

William Ashford was out admiring the winter roses with the foreign princess. A servant came to report that his wife had passed away.

He just frowned, muttered a brief "Got it," and went right back to snapping a red rose from the branch for the princess.

He never knew Beatrice had been buried in his military cloak.

Sewn into that cloak were three solid years of her unrequited love.

*****

Winter arrived unusually early in the thirteenth year of the King's reign.

When Beatrice woke up, rain was beating against the windows. The November rain was bone-chilling, but she lay perfectly still, staring at the bed canopy above.

She had embroidered that canopy herself the year they got married. It featured a pattern of intertwined doves. It took her three months, stitch by stitch, nearly ruining her eyesight.

William had taken one look at it, called it tacky, and never looked at it again.

But she still couldn't bring herself to take it down.

"My lady, you're awake?" The bed curtains parted, and her maid, Lyra Moon, walked in carrying a bowl of medicine.

Seeing Beatrice's eyes open, Lyra teared up instantly. "You were out for three days. I was terrified. The doctor said you fell ill from grief and caught a terrible chill. If you don't rest and recover, your health will be ruined."

Beatrice slowly turned her head to look at the girl.

Sixteen-year-old Lyra had a round face and round eyes. Her nose always turned pink whenever she cried.

This loyal maid had followed her from the Cornwall estate to the Commander's Manor, staying by her side for five whole years.

Five years.

Beatrice closed her eyes.

She remembered it clearly. The very night she died, William's men dragged Lyra out and sold her off. Her crime was standing up for her mistress and offending that foreign princess.

That was the winter of the King's eighteenth year.

Now, it was only the thirteenth year.

"My lady?" Lyra grew uneasy under her intense stare and carefully set the medicine bowl on the nightstand. "Why are you looking at me like that? Does something hurt?"

Beatrice didn't answer. Instead, she reached out and grabbed Lyra's wrist.

It was warm. Alive.

Lyra had an old burn scar on her wrist from childhood. The girl thought it was ugly and always hid it, wearing long sleeves even in the dead of summer.

Beatrice's thumb brushed over the scar. Suddenly, she smiled.

"Lyra," she heard her own voice say. It sounded hoarse and faint, like it was drifting in from far away. "What's today's date?"

"November sixteenth." Lyra was totally spooked by that smile. "My lady, please don't scare me."

November sixteenth.

Beatrice let go and slowly sat up.

November sixteenth, the thirteenth year of the King's reign. It was the third month since William had married Beatrice, the eldest daughter of the Marquis of the North, by royal decree.

It was also the day he first met that foreign princess.

"My lady, you haven't taken your medicine!" Lyra chased after her as she got out of bed, stomping her feet anxiously. "The doctor said you have to rest. No drafts, no moving around, no..."

"Lyra," Beatrice called softly.

She stood in front of the vanity, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

At twenty, her face wasn't yet ruined by the exhaustion of her later years; she was just a bit pale and thin. She remembered how she had tortured herself this year just to win William's favor.

He liked spicy food, so she forced herself to eat it, smiling through watery eyes and claiming it was delicious.

He liked muted colors, so she packed away all her bright wedding clothes and dressed like a widow every single day.

He liked intellectual women, so she read and practiced her handwriting day and night until her eyes ached.

But he still didn't love her.

He never loved her, right up to the day she died.

"My lady?" Lyra hurried over with the bowl. "What's wrong? You're really scaring me."

Beatrice watched Lyra in the mirror.

She never found out where Lyra was sold off to. She only knew that when they dragged her away, the girl screamed for help until she lost her voice.

'And I was such a useless mistress that I lacked the strength to say a single word in her defense,' she thought bitterly.

"Dump the medicine," Beatrice said flatly. "You don't need to brew this bitter stuff for me anymore."

"What?" Lyra was shocked. "But the doctor said..."

"The doctor said I was sick from a broken heart," Beatrice interrupted. The corners of her mouth turned up, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "But I don't want to be heartbroken anymore. So, I don't need it."

Lyra opened her mouth, completely at a loss for words.

'My lady seems different,' she thought.

But she couldn't pinpoint exactly what had changed.

"Where's William?" Beatrice asked.

"Lord Ashford..." Lyra's face shifted. She lowered her head and mumbled, "He went to the palace early this morning. I heard the envoys from the Kingdom of Northmarch arrived today, and the King is throwing a banquet for them."

"The envoys from Northmarch," Beatrice repeated.

She knew very well it wasn't just the envoys arriving today.

It was also the Ninth Princess of Northmarch, Aurora Vane.

She was the future Royal Consort, and the woman William cherished and protected for the rest of his life.

"Get me dressed," Beatrice said.

"My lady?" Lyra jumped. "You want to go out? You haven't recovered yet."

"I'm perfectly fine," Beatrice replied, walking over to the wardrobe and pushing open the doors.

Inside hung rows of plain, muted dresses. Pale ivory, faded lilac, ash gray. Each one was more depressing than the last.

The bright, colorful gowns she had brought in her bridal trousseau were buried at the bottom of her trunks, untouched for three years.

"Pack all these away," Beatrice pointed at the boring clothes. "Box them up or give them to the servants, I don't care. I just never want to see them again."

"Then what will you wear?" Lyra asked blankly.

Beatrice didn't answer. She walked over to her luggage trunks and opened the largest one herself.

Right on top lay a stunning ruby-red dress. It was made of rich velvet, embroidered with climbing roses and trimmed with gold thread that caught the light.

Her mother had hired the best tailors in the south to make it before the wedding, insisting a new bride should dress cheerfully.

But William had called it gaudy, so she never wore it again.

Beatrice pulled the dress out and let it unfold, her fingers gently brushing against the heavy velvet.

It had been five years.

A bitter sigh escaped her lips. Looking at this dress after dying and coming back to life, she just felt the girl she used to be was pathetic and ridiculous.

She had worn herself down to nothing, turning into a completely different person for a man who didn't even love her.

A heavy, exhausting question weighed on her mind. 'Was it worth it?'

"I'm wearing this," Beatrice said.

Lyra's jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

*****

Half an hour later, Beatrice stood at the main entrance of the Commander's Manor.

The ruby-red dress brought a healthy flush to her cheeks, completely washing away her sickly pale complexion.

Lyra had pinned her hair up elegantly, securing it with a gold and sapphire hairpin that caught the light with every step she took.

"Where are we going, my lady?" Lyra jogged to keep up, her eyes shining with excitement. "You look absolutely gorgeous! When Lord Ashford sees you, I bet he won't be able to look away."

Beatrice didn't reply, simply lowering her gaze as a mocking thought crossed her mind. 'Won't be able to look away?

'No matter how nicely I dressed in the past, William never actually looked at me.'

He only ever had eyes for Aurora.

"To the Ambassador's Hall," she said.

The Ambassador's Hall was hosting a banquet today for the Northmarch envoys.

Every important figure in Crown City was there. As the commanding general, William was obviously on the guest list.

Beatrice's carriage rolled down the main street at a steady pace.

Lifting a corner of the curtain, she watched the busy streets outside. The city in the thirteenth year was much livelier than she remembered.

Street vendors were selling sweets, street performers were doing tricks, and musicians sat in taverns playing lutes and telling stories of star-crossed lovers.

She remembered what happened later. In the King's seventeenth year, the Northmarch cavalry swept south, their swords pointed straight at Crown City.

Back then, this exact street was jammed with fleeing refugees. The air was filled with deafening screams, and bodies littered the ground.

And where was William?

He was deep inside the Northmarch military camp, standing guard over Aurora, terrified she might get spooked.

Beatrice dropped the curtain and closed her eyes.

*****

They arrived at the Ambassador's Hall. She stepped out of the carriage and walked straight in.

The guards at the door recognized her as the Commander's wife and didn't dare stop her. Still, they looked incredibly awkward, like they wanted to say something but couldn't.

Beatrice ignored them.

She knew exactly why they looked so uncomfortable.

It was because, at this very moment, William was walking through the winter rose garden in the back courtyard, admiring the flowers with the Princess of Northmarch.

She walked through the stone archways, followed the winding halls, and stepped onto the cobblestone path.

The winter roses lining the walkway were in full bloom, making the air smell sweet and heavy.

Then, she heard voices.

The man's voice was deep and rich. It was a voice she had listened to for five years. But the gentle, teasing warmth in it right now was something she had never heard before.

He said, "You've traveled a long way, Princess. If you need anything at all, just ask. The Crown City might not be as grand as Northmarch, but we do have a few sights worth seeing.

"This winter garden, for example, was planted by the late King himself and is quite famous around here."

"You're too kind, Lord Ashford," a soft, sweet female voice replied with a slight foreign accent. "These flowers are beautiful. They're even brighter than the winter roses back in Northmarch. It's just a shame..."

"A shame about what?"

"It's just a shame to look at such beautiful flowers all alone. It feels a bit lonely."

Beatrice stopped walking.

Standing behind a large bush of red roses, she looked through the branches and saw the two of them.

William stood tall and straight, wearing a dark embroidered tunic cinched with a leather belt. He had just snapped off a red rose and was offering it to the woman in front of him.

The woman wore traditional Northmarch clothing. Her dress was as white as snow, her dark hair fell in loose waves, and a faint, attractive sadness seemed to cling to her face.

She took the flower, looked up, and gave William a soft smile.

In that moment, Beatrice suddenly remembered the winter right before she died.

It was this exact same garden, these exact same red roses. She had stood in the snow, watching William pick a flower for Aurora.

She had been so sick she could barely get out of bed, but she still dragged herself all the way out there just to see him one last time.

But from start to finish, he never even glanced in her direction.

"My lady? "Lyra's voice echoed from behind, startling the pair in the garden.

William turned his head, his eyes locking straight onto Beatrice.

He froze.

That ruby-red dress was shockingly bright, making her look like she was glowing.

Standing there against the red petals and white snow, she looked more beautiful than a painting.

But his daze vanished in a second.

A moment later, he frowned in clear annoyance.

"What are you doing here?" he asked coldly. "If you're sick, why aren't you resting at home? Why did you come out here?"

Beatrice looked back at him, meeting his harsh stare without blinking.

The ghost of a painful memory flickered behind her eyes before fading away completely.

Looking at his face again after dying and coming back to life, she realized she actually felt completely calm.

"I heard the envoys from Northmarch arrived," she said with a faint smile. "I figured you'd be too busy networking at the banquet to actually eat anything, so I brought you some food."

She motioned for Lyra to bring the basket forward.

William frowned even harder.

He stared at her like she was a total stranger.

She was obviously smiling, but something felt incredibly off. The smile was too stiff, almost like it was painted on, and there was absolutely no warmth in her eyes.

"So this is your wife, Lord Ashford?" Aurora stepped forward. She looked Beatrice up and down, her eyes lingering on the red dress before she offered a polite smile. "I've heard the Commander's wife is a famous beauty in Crown City.

"Seeing you today, the rumors are definitely true."

Beatrice stared at the woman who had caused her death.

No, to be exact, Aurora hadn't killed her. She had killed herself with her own stupidity.

he was the one who stubbornly married a man who didn't love her. She was the one who desperately clung to a lost cause, refusing to let go until it literally destroyed her.

"You flatter me, Princess Aurora," Beatrice nodded slightly, her tone completely neutral. "I'm just an ordinary woman. I hardly deserve being called a beauty.

"You, on the other hand, look exactly like the rumors say. You look like an absolute angel."

Aurora's smile stiffened.

The words sounded like a compliment, but paired with Beatrice's flat, bored tone, they felt incredibly jarring.

"You're too polite," Aurora quickly recovered, softening her voice. "I'm new to the city and I don't really know anyone here yet. I hope I can count on your guidance."

"You're overestimating me, Princess Aurora," Beatrice remained completely indifferent. "You're an honored guest. Naturally, you'll be taken care of by important people like Lord Commander.

"I just manage the manor and stay out of politics. I'm afraid I wouldn't be any help to you at all."

Aurora's mask finally cracked.

William's brows knotted together in anger. "Beatrice." His voice dropped to a low warning. "Watch your tone."

Beatrice looked up at him.

This was the face she had loved for five years, hated for five more, and remembered until her dying breath.

Yet now, as she watched him reprimand her over another woman, the familiar ache in her chest was simply gone.

She stared at him in quiet realization. 'It truly does not hurt anymore.'

"My apologies," she lowered her head. "I misspoke."

William was caught off guard. Her immediate, effortless apology left him completely speechless.

"I'm not feeling well, so I'll be going now." Beatrice curtsied. Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and walked away.

The hem of her red dress caught the wind, flaring up like a flame before slowly disappearing into the rose garden.

William stood glued to the spot. As he watched her walk away, a weird, heavy feeling settled in his chest.

He couldn't explain why.

She was obviously still the same Beatrice. She still spoke in that same soft, gentle rhythm. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something had fundamentally changed.

"Lord Ashford?" Aurora's voice broke the silence.

William snapped out of it. Meeting her shimmering, tear-filled eyes, the strange feeling in his chest quickly faded.

"I apologize for that, Princess Aurora," he said. "My wife was out of line. Please forgive her."

Aurora shook her head gently. "She's perfectly fine. I'm just overthinking it. It's just..."

She paused, hesitating.

William pressed, "Just what?"

"Just the way she looked at me..." Aurora lowered her eyes. "It was like she was looking at a dead body."

William frowned and didn't reply, a sudden, inexplicable chill creeping down his spine. 'A dead body?'

His grip tightened reflexively on the rose stem. He remembered Beatrice's eyes from a moment ago. She was smiling, but beneath that smile, there was just an absolute void.

She really had looked at them like they meant absolutely nothing.

*****

Inside the carriage, Lyra, who had held her tongue the entire way, finally exploded. "My lady, why did you talk to them like that?

"The Princess looked so upset! And Lord Ashford looked furious..."

"If he's furious, let him be furious." Beatrice leaned back against the carriage wall and closed her eyes.

"But..."

"Lyra." Beatrice opened her eyes and looked at her. "Tell me honestly. Has William ever actually liked me?"

Lyra froze.

Beatrice added, "It's been three full months since we got married. How many times has he actually stepped foot in my bedroom? How many real conversations have we had?

"Does he even know what I like to eat, what I like to wear, or what I enjoy doing?"

Lyra opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"He doesn't like me," Beatrice answered for her. "He only married me because the King ordered him to. He had no choice. I've never been the one he cares about."

"My lady..." Lyra whispered, her voice shaky.

"I didn't understand that before. I always thought that if I was just good enough, obedient enough, and perfect enough, he would eventually appreciate me."

Beatrice smiled. It was a bitter smile, but mostly, it was full of relief. "But I was wrong. Because he doesn't love me, everything I do is wrong. I wear plain clothes, and he calls me boring. I wear bright colors, and he calls me tacky.

"I read and study, and he calls me a snob. I stop reading, and he calls me uneducated. I treat him well, and he finds me annoying. And if I don't treat him well, he simply wouldn't even notice."

Lyra's eyes filled with tears. "My lady, please don't say that."

"Silly girl." Beatrice reached out and gently patted her head. "Don't feel bad for me anymore. I don't feel sorry for myself, so you shouldn't either."

Unable to hold it in, Lyra threw herself into Beatrice's arms and sobbed.

Beatrice held her close. Staring at the passing streets outside the window, her eyes were as calm and still as a quiet lake.

She didn't know why she had been brought back to life.

But she knew one thing for sure. This time, she would never live for anyone else ever again.