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Chapter 1 — The Year She Was Seventeen Again

"If there is someone you care for… say it."
The King's voice carried across the great hall from the raised dais—steady, composed, yet touched with an uncommon gentleness. Every word was deliberate, leaving no room for doubt.
"I want to hear it from you."
Elowen Hale stood perfectly still.
In that single moment, clarity struck her like lightning.
She had returned.
Reborn—back to the year she turned seventeen.
Today was the royal banquet. Officially, it was called a "family gathering." In truth, everyone here knew better.
The King had summoned her for one reason alone.
He intended to decide her marriage—with his own words.
Elowen parted her lips.
But no sound came out.
A storm of emotions surged through her chest, tightening her throat until it hurt. Heat burned behind her eyes, blurring her vision.
"You need not be afraid."
When she failed to answer, the King's voice softened even further.
"The Hale family has served the crown for generations. Your father, your uncles, your brothers… they all gave their lives for Avenlor on the battlefield."
A pause.
"And now, only you remain."
His gaze rested on her, steady and solemn.
"I will personally see to your marriage. No matter whom you wish to wed, I will make it so."
Even after living through it once—after dying and returning—just hearing the name of her family made Elowen's heart ache.
The Avenlor Kingdom had not stood for long.
Less than a century.
Its roots were shallow, its enemies many, its future uncertain.
Last year, the horsemen from the Northern Reaches had shattered the kingdom's borders. The Hale family had been sent north to defend it.
She still remembered the day they left.
Her father, her uncles, her older brothers—
Laughing. Teasing her. Full of life.
So loud she found them unbearable.
And when they came back…
They came in coffins.
Wrapped in torn, blood-soaked cloaks.
Silent. Still.
Her aunts and sisters-in-law scattered. Some returned to their parents' homes. Others remarried.
Her mother, crushed beneath grief, fell ill and passed away at the start of the year.
The once-lively Hale Manor—
was left with only Elowen.
The King had called this a "family banquet."
But everyone understood.
This was his way of honoring the fallen Hales.
By marrying off the last surviving daughter.
A soft laugh suddenly broke the heavy silence.
"Why even ask, Father?"
A girl's voice rang out, light and teasing.
"Everyone knows Elowen is hopelessly in love with Alaric. She's never exactly been subtle."
Princess Maerwyn Valebourne.
The King's most favored daughter.
Elowen's fingers tightened slightly at her sides.
In her previous life—
Maerwyn had said these exact same words.
Back then, Elowen had flushed crimson, lowering her head in shy embarrassment at the mention of Alaric Valebourne—the Crown Prince.
The King had laughed heartily.
"Then it's settled," he had declared with a wave of his hand. "We'll choose an auspicious day. You and Alaric shall be married."
And she had believed it.
Believed that effort could win affection.
She had poured herself into that marriage.
Every detail of the wedding. Every preparation.
She told herself that if she tried hard enough…
He might notice her.
Might care.
But on their wedding night—
Alaric had shut her out.
He wouldn't touch her.
Wouldn't even let her near his bed.
By morning, Elowen was still there.
Curled on the cold stone floor.
Fully dressed.
There was no warmth.
No intimacy.
No heir. Of course.
At first, the King and Queen pitied her.
But over time, that pity turned into disappointment.
The entire Crown Prince's Wing adjusted accordingly.
Without favor… without a child…
Elowen became invisible.
Servants no longer bothered to hide their disdain.
And she endured it all silently.
Until one day—
she overheard him.
Alaric was speaking with a close companion.
About her.
Only then did she understand.
Everything she had suffered—
he had known.
He simply hadn't cared.
Or worse—
he had allowed it.
His voice was cold. Sharp with contempt.
"She forced me to marry her," he said. "Now she's getting what she deserves."
His companion hesitated.
"But Elowen is beautiful. She truly cares about you. Do you really feel nothing for her?"
Alaric didn't even pause.
"She disgusts me."
The world had gone silent.
So cold.
<i>I forced you?</i>
<i>Is that what you believe?</i>
It was his father's decision.
If he didn't want it, why didn't he say so?
Why take it out on her?
In that entire farce—
The King was praised as benevolent.
The Crown Prince gained favor.
And Elowen…
She alone paid the price.
What had she done to deserve it?
The grief clawed at her so violently she thought she might be sick—
but nothing came.
Her eyes burned.
But no tears fell.
Numb, she went to him.
She stood before him, lowered herself into a formal bow, and asked for their marriage to be dissolved.
Alaric—who had always been indifferent—
snapped.
Without warning, he grabbed a cup and hurled it at her.
Elowen didn't move.
The porcelain struck her temple.
Blood ran down her face.
For a brief moment, he looked startled.
As if he might stand.
Instead, he clenched his jaw.
"There's no need to act pitiful."
He refused.
For days, he ignored her entirely.
And then—without explanation—
he agreed.
On the eve of their separation, Elowen stood in those chambers and realized…
She felt nothing.
There was nothing she wanted to take.
Not a single thing.
In the mirror, she barely recognized herself.
Married at seventeen.
Four years later—
she was hollow.
Pale. Worn thin. Eyes empty.
At least…
She would be free.
She fell asleep that night.
And woke again—
at seventeen.
Perhaps even the heavens had taken pity on her.
“Oh?”
The King's voice pulled her back to the present.
He looked thoughtful.
"She likes Alaric?"
"Yes," Maerwyn replied with a playful smile. "Elowen is completely smitten. She's always baking pastries for him and bringing them over herself. Once she hurt her hand, but insisted it didn't hurt at all—though I ended up eating most of them."
A few quiet chuckles rippled through the hall.
"And not long ago," Maerwyn continued lightly, "when Alaric lost his favorite pouch, he was in a terrible mood. Elowen even came to ask me what kind of pattern he preferred—she wanted to make him a new one herself."
As she spoke, Alaric's brows slowly drew together.
His discomfort was unmistakable.
To him—
This was nothing but an unwanted burden.
Around the hall, more and more eyes turned toward Elowen.
Curious. Amused. Waiting. Watching.
Another girl might have felt humiliated.
Elowen felt nothing.
Compared to what she had already lived through—
this was nothing.
The King laughed.
"So you like him that much? You grew up together. It must be mutual, then. In that case, I shall arrange the betrothal myself—"
"Your Majesty."
Her voice cut cleanly through the hall.
The King turned.
“Hmm?”
Elowen's eyes were faintly red.
But her voice was steady.
This time—
she didn't even look at Alaric.
She stepped forward and lowered herself into a deep, formal bow.
"I did grow up alongside His Highness," she said clearly.
"But I have always regarded him with respect."
She paused.
Then continued, each word calm and precise.
"I have never harbored improper feelings toward him."
Silence fell.
Absolute.
Though she couldn't see it—
Alaric's brows tightened even further.
The King frowned slightly.
"Are you certain?"
Elowen knew him well.
If she didn't name someone—
he would not let this go.
She remained bowed, her posture unwavering.
Then she spoke.
Calm and certain.
"I have long admired the Duke of Duskmoor."
A faint ripple moved through the hall.
"If I may become his wife…"
She lifted her head slightly. Her eyes were clear and steady.
"…then I would have no regrets in this life."

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Chapter 2 — Playing Hard To Get?

The grand hall exploded into noise.
"What? The Duke of Duskmoor?"
"She actually said she wants to marry him?"
"Why would she give up the Crown Prince for him?"
"Does she even know he's in no condition to marry anyone?"
Whispers surged like a rising tide, crashing from every corner of the hall. They overlapped—sharp with disbelief and ridicule.
Elowen heard every word.
And yet, not a flicker of emotion crossed her face.
She stood there, composed, as if the storm had nothing to do with her.
The King let out a quiet sigh, clearly trying to smooth things over.
"That would be… a difficult match for you," he said, his tone gentle but hesitant. "Perhaps I should select another suitable candidate from the royal family."
But Elowen didn't retreat.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice steady, firm enough to cut through the murmurs, "I am deeply grateful for your kindness. But I have already sworn before the Holy Mother."
A breath.
"In this life, I will marry no one but the Duke of Duskmoor."
She lowered herself into a deep, formal curtsy before the King and Queen—and stayed there.
"I humbly ask for your blessing."
She did not rise.
Her posture was unwavering, her resolve laid bare for all to see.
Cassian Valebourne.
Duke of Duskmoor.
The King's younger brother, the ninth-born son of the royal family.
Back when the King had still been a prince, fighting his way toward the throne, it had been Cassian who stood beside him—unshaken, unyielding.
Again and again, he had pulled the King back from the brink of death.
Without him, there might never have been a crown.
Afterward, Cassian led campaign after campaign—east, north—crushing rebellions, expanding borders, carving his name into legend.
There was no one in Avenlor who didn't know his reputation.
Until one year ago.
Stationed in the Northern Reaches, in the middle of a campaign—
he collapsed.
Without warning.
He was carried back to Duskmoor Manor.
And never woke up.
Royal physicians came and went.
None could promise anything.
Some whispered he might never wake again.
Elowen knew all of it.
And she knew something no one else did.
In her previous life—
Cassian awoke in the third year of her marriage.
That year…
had been one of the darkest she had ever endured.
She remained childless.
The Queen arranged for Alaric to take a consort.
Compared to Elowen, the consort was cherished—by Alaric, by the servants, by the entire Crown Prince's Wing.
Everything Elowen was not.
When Cassian finally woke, Alaric brought both women to Duskmoor Manor to visit him.
On the way back—
the consort deliberately left early in the carriage.
Leaving Elowen behind. Alone.
Elowen didn't even know the road back to the palace.
She lingered there, quietly, hoping—just hoping—someone might offer her a seat.
But everyone knew.
The Crown Prince despised her.
No one wanted to risk offending him.
She stood there as the sun dipped lower, the world slowly emptying around her—
until despair began to close in.
And then—
a voice.
Weak, but steady.
"There's a carriage ready. Come.”
She turned.
Stunned.
Cassian sat in a wheelchair not far behind her, draped in a dark, loose robe.
His once-powerful frame had grown thin, his face pale and gaunt.
But when he looked at her—
he smiled. Softly and gently.
"Would you care to stay for supper at Duskmoor Manor?" he asked.
"No, I—"
She meant to refuse.
She really did.
But the moment she opened her mouth—
her voice broke.
Tears spilled down her cheeks without warning, relentless.
She couldn't stop them.
She didn't understand.
Why was she treated like this?
What had she done wrong?
Her family had died for the kingdom.
And she—
was the one left behind.
Abandoned. Discarded.
All the pain she had buried so deeply, so carefully—
broke loose in that moment.
Right in front of him, Cassian sighed softly.
Then, without a word, he took out a handkerchief and offered it to her.
He didn't ask questions.
Didn't press.
Simply stayed beside her.
The entire time.
She cried for what felt like forever.
And he never left.
After that day—
she never saw him again.
But she remembered it.
For a very long time.
…
Back in the present, the King frowned, deep in thought.
He didn't speak.
The hall waited.
It was the Queen who finally broke the silence.
Her voice was calm and measured.
"If she is truly determined to marry Cassian," she said, "then perhaps we should honor her sincerity."
The King glanced at her, then back at Elowen—still bowed.
At last, he sighed.
"…Very well."
He rubbed his temple, looking suddenly tired.
"You have no family left. And Cassian is still unwell. The palace will oversee all arrangements."
Reluctant.
But final.
Elowen raised her head eagerly, a glimmer of hope in her eyes, then bowed again.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
This time—
she would not repeat the same mistake.
She would not marry Alaric again.
Cassian was the best choice.
For one thing—
He was still unconscious, which alone gave her time.
Time to plan.
Time to take control of her own future.
And in her previous life…
though he had eventually awakened—
neglect and poor care had left him permanently paralyzed. Confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
He had shown her kindness—when no one else had.
The least she could do…was return it.
Care for him.
Help him recover.
Maybe—even help him walk again.
And when he woke up—she would ask for a divorce.
He likely wouldn't want this marriage either.
Before everything fell apart, back when Cassian was still healthy, she heard whispers that he had once loved someone.
No one knew who she was.
…
Across the hall, Alaric sat rigid in his seat.
His gaze was locked on Elowen.
Unblinking.
An irritation he couldn't explain gnawed at him.
"She wants to marry Cassian?" Maerwyn muttered under her breath, lips curling. "Elowen really is the dumbest girl alive."
Alaric's brow tightened.
Maerwyn leaned closer, her eyes glinting with amusement.
"Alaric, I'd bet anything—she'll regret this in less than a week."
A faint, cold smile touched his lips.
"That has nothing to do with me."
…
After the banquet, Elowen returned to Hale Manor.
She walked through the quiet garden, past familiar paths overgrown with silence, and into her long-abandoned room.
The moment she stepped inside—
She let herself fall onto the bed.
For the first time in years, she didn't have to think about Alaric.
Didn't have to brace herself for another cold glance, another silent humiliation.
She was home.
The thought settled over her like warmth.
And for the first time in a long time—
she slept.
Deeply and peacefully.
Night after night, her strength slowly returned.
…
A few days later, Hilda—one of the Queen's most trusted lady-in-waitings—arrived at the Hale Manor.
She greeted Elowen with a warm, familiar smile.
"His Majesty has entrusted your wedding arrangements to Her Majesty," Hilda said kindly. "The Queen has been preparing everything herself. Today, she plans to select an auspicious date—and she hopes you'll come to the palace to assist."
Elowen hesitated slightly.
"I'm not very good with such matters," she admitted. "Her Majesty may choose any date she deems suitable. I have no objections."
Hilda let out a soft laugh.
"Even common families consult the bride after the groom's side chooses a date," she said gently. "You should come, my lady. The Queen mentioned she hasn’t seen you in quite some time—and would like a private word."
<i>A private word?</i>
Elowen paused.
In both her past life and this one—
the Queen never liked her.
They were never close.
But Hilda's tone was sincere.
Elowen found herself unable to refuse.
…
By the time she entered the palace, the sun was already lowering in the sky. Golden light spilled across the cobblestone paths, warm and soft.
Elowen walked quietly, following the servants toward the central wing.
Her gaze stayed lowered, watching the shifting light at her feet.
"Your Highness."
Hilda's respectful greeting suddenly rang out.
Elowen froze. Then slowly lifted her head.
Alaric stood not far ahead.
Tall. Impeccable. Cold.
His brows were furrowed, his sharp gaze fixed on her with unmistakable scrutiny.
That look made her chest tighten.
Instinctively, she lowered her eyes again and stepped back, offering a restrained bow.
"Your Highness."
Alaric's frown deepened.
He knew she liked him.
She had memorized his routines, timed her visits to the Queen just to "accidentally" run into him.
Always with pastries she baked herself.
Smiling. Hopeful.
He had never eaten them.
He gave them away.
Or had them thrown out.
But today, her hands were empty.
No pastry box.
So she came just to see him?
At the banquet, she had boldly claimed she felt nothing for him.
And now here she was, clearly regretting it.
But still playing distant and pretending she had moved on.
Alaric let out a low, mocking chuckle.
"Really, Elowen?" he said coolly, his voice edged with ridicule.
"Is this your idea of playing hard to get?"
His gaze sharpened.
"Honestly… it's kind of boring."

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Chapter 3 — Escorting The Bride From Hale Manor

Elowen stilled, a flicker of real confusion crossing her face. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness—what did you say?"
Alaric's tone was ice-cold, sharpened with open contempt. "Since you've so publicly declared your intention to marry my uncle, you can stop trailing after me. That kind of persistence is… revolting."
For a heartbeat, she stood frozen.
Then it clicked.
So that was how he saw it.
In her previous life, scenes like this had played out more times than she could count. She had always known she ought to explain—but fear had sealed her lips. Fear of choosing the wrong words. Fear of earning even deeper scorn. And so, again and again, she had said nothing.
But now?
She didn't care anymore.
His opinion no longer held any weight.
Elowen pressed her lips together briefly, then spoke with quiet clarity. "Your Highness, I have never intended to cling to you. At the family banquet, I made myself perfectly clear to His Majesty—I do not have feelings for you. Not in the slightest."
Alaric arched a brow, disbelief laced with sarcasm. "Is that so? Then what—did you lose your way and happen to wander here by chance, only to run into me?"
"I was summoned to the palace by Her Majesty," Elowen replied evenly. "If you doubt me, then at least trust Hilda."
A brief pause.
Alaric's gaze shifted.
Hilda stepped forward with a composed smile. "Her Majesty did indeed summon Lady Elowen."
She had served the Queen for years—her word was beyond question.
So Elowen hadn't come here for him at all.
A faint crease formed between Alaric's brows, irritation rising, unwelcome and sharp.
"I will soon be marrying Duke Cassian," Elowen continued, her voice steady as still water. "Her Majesty is overseeing the arrangements. Today, she asked me to choose the wedding date. If Your Highness remains unconvinced, you are welcome to confirm it with her yourself."
When she finished, something inside her loosened—like a weight she hadn't realized she'd been carrying had finally slipped free.
Alaric, however, felt the exact opposite.
His gaze locked onto her. "My uncle has been unconscious for years. The physicians say he may never wake. If you marry him, you'll spend your entire life alone."
Elowen's thoughts stirred quietly.
I<i>n my previous life, I married you… and I was alone until the day I died.</i>
Her expression remained unchanged. If anything, a faint, almost serene smile touched her lips.
"Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. But as I've said, I have admired Duke Cassian for a long time. As long as I can remain by his side… it doesn't matter whether he wakes or not."
Alaric's face darkened at once.
Elowen turned to Hilda without another glance at him. "Let's go. We shouldn't keep Her Majesty waiting."
Alaric did not move.
He simply stood there, watching her retreating figure.
For a fleeting instant, another image surfaced in his mind—
Elowen, smiling, timid, her eyes lowered as she spoke in a soft, earnest voice: "Your Highness… I'm truly happy to be able to marry you."
The image wavered, like a reflection disturbed by ripples—
and vanished.
A dull, unfamiliar ache spread through his chest, heavy and suffocating, as though something important had just slipped beyond his grasp.
—
Inside Rose Hall, the Queen had already been waiting.
At the sight of Elowen, she smiled at once—graceful, impeccable… and utterly without warmth.
"Elowen, you've finally arrived," she said, gesturing her closer. "Come, sit beside me."
Elowen did not move immediately. Instead, she dipped into a flawless curtsy. "Your Majesty."
The Queen's smile lingered. "Always so well-mannered. But tell me—why did you come alone?"
Elowen understood the implication perfectly.
She simply chose not to acknowledge it.
"There is no one left at Hale Manor to accompany me," she said softly.
For the briefest moment, something flickered in the Queen's eyes—then disappeared.
"Let's not dwell on such things," she said lightly. "Come, take a look at the dates."
A parchment lay upon the table, two dates written in neat, deliberate script.
June third, October nineteenth.
<i>October nineteenth.</i>
The date she had married Alaric in her previous life.
An "auspicious" day, they had called it.
And yet, rain had poured without mercy, a relentless storm that drenched the entire procession. Silk and satin clung in disarray, musicians faltered, the ceremony descended into damp humiliation.
Later, whispers spread.
Ill-omened.
A bride who would bring disaster upon the royal house.
"In my opinion," the Queen said smoothly, "the nineteenth of October would be far more suitable. What do you think?"
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Elowen replied, her smile gentle but unwavering. "But I believe June third would be better."
"It is already April," the Queen pointed out. "Wouldn't that be rather rushed?"
"It is," Elowen admitted. "But I wish to marry Duke Cassian as soon as possible."
A faint blush surfaced at just the right moment—subtle, controlled, perfectly convincing.
At that instant, the doors opened.
Alaric stepped inside.
Her words reached him clearly.
His stride faltered—just slightly. His jaw tightened before he even noticed it himself.
<i>Is she truly that eager?</i>
"Ah, Alaric—you've come at the perfect time," the Queen said warmly. "Elowen insists on marrying on June third, but I find it far too hurried. October would be more appropriate. Come—help persuade her. She has always listened to you."
Alaric shot Elowen a glance, his voice cutting and cold. "If she's so eager to marry my uncle, why deny her? Delay it until October, and she may start complaining behind our backs."
The words were deliberately cruel.
Where once they might have struck deep—
Elowen simply smiled.
"His Highness is quite right," she said calmly. "Then June third it shall be. I do hope Your Highness will attend the celebration."
Alaric's eyes darkened, something dangerous flickering beneath the surface. He let out a faint, humorless huff, then turned away.
"I have other matters to attend to. I'll take my leave."
"Very well," the Queen replied. "Don't overexert yourself."
He gave a perfunctory nod and left without another word.
Elowen was about to excuse herself when the Queen spoke again.
"Oh—Elowen."
She turned back.
"You're aware Duke Cassian remains unconscious," the Queen said thoughtfully. "He will not be able to escort his bride from Hale Manor. By custom, someone must stand in his place—an unmarried man of suitable standing." She paused, then added lightly, "I'm considering Alaric."
Elowen shook her head without hesitation.
"His Highness carries many responsibilities. I wouldn't dare trouble him. It would be better to choose another from the royal family. Leonhart would be appropriate—he is twenty, unmarried, and of proper age."
If Alaric were to escort her, he would only find new ways to humiliate her.
The Queen studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Very well."
—
On the carriage ride back to Hale Manor, fragments of childhood rose unbidden.
Her grandfather had once instructed Alaric in riding and archery, often bringing her along to the palace. In those years, they had grown up side by side.
They had shared everything.
Sneaking out beyond the palace gates. Laughing without restraint. Speaking of futures that seemed certain.
Once, a runaway carriage had thundered down a crowded street. Elowen had pushed Alaric aside just in time—saving his life—but she had been struck instead, her knee slamming hard against stone.
The injury had left her unable to walk for days.
Back then, Alaric had been beside himself, gripping her hand, sweat beading down his temples.
"I'll take care of you forever," he had vowed.
When had that changed?
When had warmth turned into distance… and distance into disdain?
She couldn't remember.
In her previous life, she had chased that answer relentlessly—crying through endless nights, wearing herself thin.
In the end, her injured knee ached without cease, and her vision deteriorated. In dim light, the world blurred into shadows.
This time—
she let it go.
There was no need to understand.
In this world, aside from life and death, everything else was trivial.
—
As the wedding approached, preparations engulfed the palace, Duskmoor Manor, and Hale Manor alike. Golden silk and gilded ornaments bloomed everywhere, impossible to ignore.
Living in the Crown Prince's Wing, Alaric found himself surrounded by it.
Day after day, his irritation mounted.
At last, he stepped out for air.
Just then, a visitor arrived.
His cousin—Leonhart Valebourne, eldest legitimate son of Duke Roland.
They met in the study.
"You've come with a purpose?" Alaric asked lazily.
Leonhart grinned, unabashed. "Well—Uncle Cassian is getting married, isn't he? Her Majesty wants to appoint someone from the royal family to escort the bride from Hale Manor…"

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