The first time I died, Emperor Lucien signed the order with my blood still on his sleeve.
The second time, I woke in the same bed, one night before the trial that would ruin me.
Rain tapped the palace windows like impatient fingers.
I remembered the poison cup, the false witnesses, the way Lucien never looked at me until the blade fell.
I reached for the dagger hidden beneath my pillow.
The bedroom doors opened.
Lucien entered without guards, crown missing, black hair soaked from the storm.
Then the tyrant emperor dropped to his knees beside my bed.
"Emilia," he said, voice breaking. "This time, let me save you."