I never imagined I’d one day stand on the same scaffold where I’d watched hundreds of people meet their end.

  The execution platform stood at the center. A crude structure of dark timber, stained by weather and worse. It rose above the ground on stout beams, each scarred with gouges and rusting nails older than I was.

  At the top, a single block sat near the center, smooth from use, polished not by care but by the countless necks that had rested there before mine.

  The executioner’s tools lay on a nearby table: a long, heavy sword—clean, for now and a stained cloth. Wooden stairs led up to the platform. I counted six hollow, groaning steps. Six, the curse number, the number of Death.

  Splotches of dirt and blood dotted the wood. But it wasn’t the blood that unsettled me. It was the silence. No birds. No mutters from the guards or the crowd who came to watch me die. Just the block, looming like a judge who never left its bench.

  The people I once ruled as Empress of the Lumenreich Empire watched with silent, judgmental eyes. Was it even right to call myself Empress, dressed in nothing but a sack they dared call a dress? The thought made me laugh.

  The herald announced the arrival of the king’s entourage. Their chairs were placed on a veranda draped in the same fineries that had once been mine. They held their heads high with a mix of pity and impatience, as if they couldn’t wait for this day to end.

  “Isn’t it the plan all along?” I murmured. “And it seems I’m the only one who didn’t know.”

  I could only speculate.

  A week ago, I was an empress adorned with the finest silks and jewelry in the Empire. Then came the storm. Imperial Knights crashing through my chambers, their red capes trailing like fire behind them as they tore my room apart.

  Sir Islan, the captain of the Imperial Knights, claimed they were looking for evidence, a proof of my infidelity and betrayal of the king’s trust.

  “I believe such evidence does not exist,” I told the old captain.

  But I should’ve seen through it. This was a scheme all along, a way to frame me and strip me of power. I had known for some time now that my husband, Emperor Griffin, had long since lost his love for me. We were once inseparable, the golden couple they called us.

  I just didn’t expect time to twist his promises so cruelly. After my third miscarriage six months ago, I lost his favor completely. He never visited me again. Even standing beside me at events seemed to irritate him.

  But I endured it all, as an Empress must. I was raised to know that losing the emperor’s favor was not unusual. The man on the throne would always seek younger mistresses, fresh concubines. Knowing this didn’t dull the ache. For I believed our marriage was different. But I was wrong.

  When I first learned he’d taken another woman, it devastated me. I cried for a week. Over time, the sorrow dulled into numbness. And I remained faithful. The former Empress, my teacher, told me that we must always remain faithful.

  “We’re replaceable,” she said. “We might lose his favor, but we must remain faithful.”

  Empress… you were wrong. Faithfulness only brings pain and suffering.

  I glanced at the crowd. Closest to the platform, my ladies-in-waiting wept openly, pleading for my innocence. If I could open my mouth, I’d tell them to leave. Loyalty to me might doom them. I didn’t want them to share my fate. That was the only gift I had left to give.

  The wind cut through me. Facing the dawn, I thought of Thaddeus. The only family I had left. And of the warm winds of Gildenburg, where I was born.

  Was Thaddeus in the crowd? I doubted it. The last time I saw him, his eyes burned with hatred.

  The executioner arrived. The wood groaned beneath his weight. He wore a black hood with two holes cut for his eyes. Just before he pushed my head toward the block, I saw his eyes, they were blue like the dress I once wore in my youth.

  I closed my eyes and waited for death to come. I only regretted one thing—

  The world was spinning, and the ground was shaking. My legs wobbled beneath me. I gasped for breath, trying to stop my lurching stomach. Bile burned the back of my throat, and my hands flew to my mouth.

  But what would I even vomit? The stale bread and water they gave me in the palace dungeons?

  The silent crowd from earlier had suddenly come alive. I heard murmurs and shrill laughter. Children’s voices?

  Why would commoners bring their children to an execution?

  Slowly, I opened my eyes. Blinding light greeted me first.

  I was standing on a grassy field, not the tall kind that grew wild near forests, but the trimmed, decorative type used in gardens and courtyards.

  Where was the execution platform?

  My hands flew to my neck. My head was still attached.

  I wanted to speak, to ask what was happening. But my throat was so dry it felt like I hadn’t had water in months.

  Then, my sight sharpened. Words shimmered before me in golden light.

  “Morgana?”

  The voice was deep and familiar. The second time he called my name, I recognized him but my mind refused to believe it.

  I looked around again.

  Men and women dressed in familiar brown uniforms. A brown vest over a white shirt for the males. A simple brown dress for the females. The uniforms of the Bresdan Royal University.

  Griffin called my name a third time. I turned toward him.

  He was kneeling on the grass, a bouquet of flowers trembling in his hands. His face was drawn with worry. I hadn’t seen him offer me flowers in years. He used to bring me bouquets all the time when we were younger.

  “Morgana, are you okay? You look pale. Do you want to go to the clinic?” Griffin asked.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I took a step back. Anger and fear flared as realization sank in.

  My head throbbed. The man who sent me to my death was standing right in front of me! Unaged, unburdened, as if everything we’d lived through had never happened.

  Why was I in the Royal University all of a sudden? Why did everyone look so young?

  I scanned the field again. No execution platform. No dungeon walls. Just white buildings and neatly trimmed grass.

  Griffin walked slowly, still hesitant. The glares I shot him kept him from coming any closer.

  Whispers rose from the crowd.

  “What’s happening? Why is she backing away from His Highness?”

  “She must be overwhelmed. I’d be shy too if my betrothed did something like that in front of everyone.”

  Griffin turned to the murmuring students, then looked back at me. “Why don’t we go somewhere more private?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “You can go alone.”

  I spared him one last glance before walking away. The crowd gasped, but one look from me was enough to part them.

  As soon as I was out of their sight, I ran.

  I sprinted across the field, heart pounding. The wide open space made my dizziness worse. Stone paths branched out in every direction, each one leading to a different building. I chose the nearest one and pushed open the first door I saw.

  Inside, a class was in session. The professor stopped mid-sentence and stared at me.

  “Do you need anything?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, bowing before hurrying out.

  I ran again, eyes darting in every direction. What was I even looking for? Something familiar. Something that might anchor me.

  But everything looked too clean. Too new. Too untouched.

  Where could I go?

  Then, a memory stirred. The dorms. Back when I studied here, I used to live in the dormitories.

  On a cobbled path, I spotted a lone student walking toward me.

  “Excuse me, could you point me to the dorms?”

  She blinked and gave me a rushed greeting before pointing out the direction. As she spoke, an old, almost forgotten memory resurfaced. It felt like finding a childhood book tucked away in a dusty attic.

  Before she finished, I took off running. My feet and the memory led me.

  The dorms were at the western edge of the university. There were three buildings there, four stories tall, made of gray stone with narrow windows. Ivy climbed up the sides, and old rain stains painted the walls. The place looked more like a sideways palace than student housing.

  No guards stood by the wooden door. I stepped inside and was met with silence. Everyone must have been in class. My room was at the end of the west wing’s second floor.

  I ran through the corridor, nearly slipping on the freshly mopped floor. Panting, I stopped at the familiar door.

  A golden nameplate read: Morgana Eleonore von Goldhain

  I reached into my pockets, hoping for a key.

  Nothing.

  I twisted the knob, praying for a miracle. Locked.

  In my rush, I hadn’t even brought a bag.

  “Where would I even find my bag?” I whispered. “I don’t even remember what class I’m attending!”

  I kicked the door. It didn’t help.

  Balling my fists, I pounded on it again and again. Of course it didn’t budge. The dorm doors were made to withstand forced entry. Still, I slammed my body against it, pain shooting through my side. I did it again. And again until my vision blurred. Tears spilled from my eyes. I sank to my knees, slumped against the door.

  Finally, my emotions caught up with me. I felt helpless. Lost.

  All my life, I had tried to understand everything before taking risks. I planned, I calculated, I prepared. Now I was thrown into something without explanation or warning.

  And I was terrified.

  I let myself cry, wiping at my face with my hands because I didn’t even have a handkerchief with me.

  How pathetic!

  I breathed heavily, finally calming down. My back pressed against the door as I rested my forehead on my palms. Crying wouldn’t help me now. I needed to find the key to my dorm room.

  I stretched my arms, the familiar sound of my muscles cracking offering a strange comfort. As my hand fell to my side, it accidentally struck the small plant pot near the door. It was a modest container, just enough to hold a flowering plant that didn’t need much space. But whatever I’d planted there had died years ago. Only twigs and dry soil remained.

  It looked pitiful. I wondered why I hadn’t replaced it.

  A flash of memory cut through my thoughts. I remembered hiding a spare key beneath the pot. My hands trembled. I lifted the pot, revealing a silver key tucked underneath it.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, clutching the key to my chest. I repeated my thanks to Lumen for a miracle I never thought I’d believe in again.

  I slipped the key into the lock and turned the knob. A satisfying click followed.

  The wind coming from the open windows welcomed me. Smells that were both familiar and unfamiliar brought me back to several decades ago. A time where my problem were composed of assignments, tests and dealing with obnoxious classmates.

  I stepped inside, locking the door behind me. The room felt strange, as though I no longer belonged in a place I once called my own. I sank into the nearest chair. The dorm was tiny. A partitioned room held a bed in one corner, while the rest of the space included a compact kitchen and a study nook with a small shelf of books. On the desk there was a book and slender porcelain vase with freshly-picked tulips.

  Every day, a servant my father had hired would came to help me dress and handle chores like the dishes and laundry. Her absence meant she was likely out washing clothes.

  I moved to the bedroom, leaving the door open. The bed felt warm and clean beneath my fingers, and the comfort made me yawn. I shook my head, trying to stay awake. I approached the study table and grabbed a pen and paper.

  “I need to figure out what happened and what year it is now.”

  My eyes drifted toward the calendar. The numbers blurred for a moment.

  “I went thirty years into the past.”

  The realization made me shiver. I stumbled into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. The sun was still high. It couldn’t be later than eleven in the morning.

  But exhaustion weighed heavily on me. After a string of yawns, I gave in and crawled into bed. I would figure everything out later and devise a plan once I’d rested. As I closed my eyes, I prayed this wasn’t another nightmare. And if it was, I never wanted to wake up.

  By late afternoon, I woke up to find myself still in my dorm room. Reality hasn’t shifted. Everything that had happened was real.

  There was only one conclusion: I had returned to the past. But the question lingered... why had I been given this chance? I shoved the thought aside. Searching for meaning now would only leave me more confused. For the moment, I had one goal to stay as far away from the Crown Prince as possible.

  I wouldn’t marry him again.

  But simply refusing wouldn’t be enough. I had to find a way for the Imperial Family to break off the engagement themselves.

  Breaking a betrothal wasn’t simple, especially among high-ranking nobles like us. If I gave them no valid reason, the Emperor might take offense.

  And if the engagement ended poorly, it could damage House Goldhain’s reputation. I immediately pushed that worry away.

  I had already done everything for my family in my last life. I married a man I believed loved me. But it was all a lie. My life, which the world envied, was nothing more than a gilded cage. I was always lonely especially after my first miscarriage. And in the end, even the last member of my family turned against me.

  This time, I wouldn’t live for others.

  I wouldn’t suffer the same fate.

  I wouldn’t be that lonely, selfless woman who died after giving everything to the man she loved.

  I shifted in my chair, my gaze falling to a book left open on the desk. Curious, I reached for it wondering what kind of books I used to enjoy in the past.

  It was a textbook called The Herbalist Primer. A thick volume listing fifty potions required for the Brewmaster's License. The potions ranged from basic remedies to complex concoctions that treated coughs, skin conditions, and infections.

  I smiled. I’d almost forgotten how much I used to love this.

  A memory surfaced: as a child, I’d dreamed of becoming a traveling herbalist. Someone who collected rare ingredients to brew exotic potions. I’d even fantasized about chasing the ingredients for the mythical Eldar’s Stone, said to cure any illness and even grant immortality. It was the same stone the elves once used to lengthen their lives.

  I closed my eyes, letting the wind caress my face. In the quiet, new ideas began to form: plans, schemes, and escapes. Threads of thought weaving together into a new future.

  A bell-like chime stirred me from my reverie. I opened my eyes to see glowing golden letters floating in front of me. This was the same strange vision I’d had when I first awoke.

  The Golden Runes.

  I knew of them, of course. But I never imagined I’d become a Runebearer. No one in our family had ever been granted such power. Not even our ancestors.

  Earlier, I dismissed it as a trick of the light. But now, its sudden appearance has changed everything for me.

  You might think Morgana’s new life is the perfect setup for a revenge story—and honestly, I thought so too. There were countless moments early on when I considered changing the narrative, turning Morgana into someone who rises up and takes back everything that was stolen from her. I even tried writing those chapters. But no matter how I shaped them, they always ended the same: with her walking away. Choosing peace. Choosing freedom.

  Maybe that was Morgana’s way of speaking to me—telling me that she didn’t want the life I had planned. She wanted something of her own. And that’s exactly what I intend to give her in this story.

  This is the first slice-of-life story I’ve ever written, and it’s going to be a long journey. I want to explore not just the quiet, everyday moments of Morgana’s life as a Brewmaster, but also how she slowly heals from the weight of her past. There will be magic, mistakes, tea brewed with care, and wounds that take time to close.

  We’re in for a long ride—and I hope you’ll stay with me until the very end of her journey.