Alexandria POV:
Pain brought me back.
Not the searing burn of silver, but a dull, chafing ache in my wrists and ankles. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and damp earth.
My eyes snapped open.
This wasn't the void. It was a cellar. My family's cellar.
I looked down. I was wearing a thin, torn nightdress. My body was covered in angry red welts from a whip. Heavy iron chains bound my hands and feet to the stone wall. My ribs ached with every shallow breath I took, the ghost of an older wound I had carried into the grave—one I had earned in a battle that no one in this house would ever know about. Now it was back, raw and real, pressed into this younger body like a scar that had never fully healed.
Memory crashed over me like a tidal wave.
I was eighteen. This was the year Christal framed me for stealing my stepmother's jewels. I remembered the way she had produced the box from beneath my pillow with a theatrical gasp, the way she had looked at me with wide, wounded eyes as if I had personally betrayed her. I remembered standing before my father, trying to explain, my voice shaking—and he had not even looked at me. He had simply waved his hand and told the guards to take me away. No trial. No question. Just a wave of his hand. The year my father, Robert Torres, had me chained down here like an animal.
I was back.
The Moon Goddess had given me a second chance. She had actually heard me. The raw, howling fury I had thrown at her indifferent face—she had caught it and answered. I did not know if I deserved it. I did not know if this was mercy or a cage of another kind. But I was here.
A phantom pain flared in my chest, where the arrow had struck. The memory of betrayal, the fresh humiliation of these chains-it all twisted together into a scream that I swallowed down.
Calm. I had to be calm.
I took a deep, shuddering breath of the foul air, savoring the feeling of lungs that worked, a heart that beat. I was alive.
A muffled sob came from the corner of the room.
My head turned. Curled in the shadows was a small, shivering figure.
Jade Sullivan. My maid. My only friend in this house.
Her thin shoulders shook, and I could see dark bruises on her arms.
A wave of warmth and guilt washed over me. In my last life, Jade had died trying to protect me from my stepmother's schemes. I saw her face as they dragged her away from me—the terror in her eyes, and beneath it, a stubborn, defiant love that refused to break. I remembered the cheap blue hair ribbon I had given her on her birthday, the one she had been wearing when they hanged her. I had found it later, tangled in the ropes, frayed and stained. Not this time. This time, I would protect her.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and two burly guards stepped inside. Their faces were cruel, their eyes filled with contempt.
One of them stalked toward Jade, a whip dangling from his hand.
"Still got a mouth on you, little rat?" he sneered, raising the whip. "Time for another lesson."
Jade flinched but glared back at him, her chin trembling with defiance.
The whip whistled through the air.
"Stop."
My voice was quiet, but it cut through the damp air like a shard of ice. Both guards froze, their heads snapping in my direction. They stared, confused, as if they'd never seen me before.
They hadn't. Not this version of me.
The weak, crying Omega they knew was gone, burned away by a silver arrow.
I met their gaze, and there were no tears in my eyes. Only a cold, burning fire.
"Touch her again," I said, my voice dangerously low, "and I promise you, you will regret the day you were born."
The sheer menace in my tone stunned them. They took an involuntary step back, their bravado faltering. The first guard glanced at the second, something unspoken passing between them—a flicker of uncertainty. She sounds like she means it, his eyes seemed to say. But look at her—she's trembling, the other's gaze replied. Let them be confused. Let them be caught between what they saw and what they felt. That crack in their certainty was all I needed.
I forced my expression to waver, my lower lip trembling in a pantomime of the frightened girl they expected to see, even as my heart hammered with the effort of restraint. Inside, the commander who had faced down armies was screaming to be unleashed, but I choked her back down. Let them think this was just a cornered animal's desperate bite. Let them underestimate me a little longer.
I began to test the manacles, feeling the cold iron against my skin. My mind, honed by years of battle strategy, assessed the situation. I knew anatomy. I knew weak points.
A slow, chilling smile spread across my face, and I quickly dropped my gaze to hide it, letting my hair fall forward like a curtain. I couldn't let them see the predator.
"My father ordered you to lock me up," I said, my voice sweet as venom, though I pitched it with a slight quaver. "He didn't say you could touch my people."
Then, I moved.
I twisted my hand at an unnatural angle, focusing all my strength on my thumb joint.
With a sickening pop, the joint dislocated.
Pain shot up my arm, white-hot and blinding, but my face remained a calm mask. My hand, now smaller and more pliable, slipped easily through the iron cuff.
Jade gasped. The guards stared, their mouths hanging open in disbelief.
I repeated the process on my other hand. Another pop. Another wave of agony that I ignored.
I was free.
I rose to my feet, the chains clattering to the floor. I flexed my hands, and with two more sharp, brutal movements, I forced my thumbs back into their sockets. The whole process was fluid, efficient, and utterly terrifying to watch.
I picked up a length of the heavy chain from the floor, its weight familiar and comforting in my hand. Its cold iron was the only honest thing in this house—it did not pretend to love me. I looked at the two guards, who were now pale with fear.
Footsteps echoed from the stone stairs outside.
"Has she learned her lesson yet?" my father's impatient voice boomed.
I let my smile widen. It was not a pleasant sight.
Thirty thousand dead soldiers waited for justice. And this cellar—this damp, miserable hole—was the first thread in the tapestry of their blood. I would not unravel it quickly. I would unravel it one knot at a time, and I would start with the man walking down those stairs.
The real lesson was just about to begin.
