The Lady and the Duke: Frostbound Rebirth

Chapter 2 Second Dawn

Seraphel blinked as soft, warm light streamed through the window and gently caressed her face. Waves of confusion washed over her.

Wasn't I dead?

She sat up slowly, her body feeling strangely light and warm—nothing like the freezing emptiness she remembered from her final moments. The last thing she recalled was the bone-deep cold of the marble floor, the icy indifference in her sister's eyes, and the kiss that had sealed her fate. But now…

She looked around the room, her mind struggling to make sense of everything. This was her old room in the mountain estate—the same cramped space she had lived in for so many forgotten years, complete with cracked walls, threadbare curtains, and the lonely

corner where she had spent countless quiet nights.

None of this made sense.

Seraphel pushed herself out of bed, her legs slightly unsteady beneath her. A simple robe lay draped over a nearby chair, so she quickly pulled it on while her mind desperately tried to catch up. She was supposed to be dead. She had felt the darkness closing in and her final breath slipping away. Death didn't grant second chances, and it certainly didn't return people to their childhood rooms.

Her gaze dropped to her hands as she tied the robe closed, and she froze. These were her hands… yet they weren't the ones she remembered. Her fingers were slender and smooth, her skin healthy and supple, with no trace of withering, no translucent pallor, and none of the dark veins that had once crept beneath the surface like roots of decay.

Slowly, she turned them over, staring as though they belonged to someone else. The withering had started after she lost the Immortal Function. Her cultivation had been tied to that divine blessing, and when it vanished, her body had begun to fail. She had come to hate these hands—hate how they looked, how they felt, and how they marked her as broken. Even worse were the glances people gave her before quickly looking away, their faces twisted with pity and contempt.

But these hands… they were whole again.

A sudden gust of wind swept through the open window, cutting through her thoughts. The cold air bit at her skin, making her shiver as she pulled the robe tighter around herself. Turning toward the window, she watched thick snowflakes drift lazily from a gray sky, blanketing the world in white. Beyond them, the mountains stretched endlessly into the distance, their peaks swallowed by heavy

clouds.

Right.

Winter.

She was at the Solvaine Clan's remote mountain estate—though calling it an estate felt far too generous. It was little more than a dilapidated shack forgotten on the edge of clan territory. And worst of all, it had no fireplace.

Her breath misted in the frigid air as she watched the snow fall. Perhaps this was the heavens' mercy—a final, fleeting glimpse of the past before true oblivion claimed her.

Then her eyes landed on a small hand mirror resting on the table near the window. She remembered it. Elara had helped her buy it from a traveling merchant years ago, back when Seraphel still cared about such trivial things.

Walking over, she picked it up with trembling fingers. The moment she looked into the mirror, her breath caught in her throat. A young woman stared back at her—lustrous black hair framing a delicate face, clear dark eyes meeting her gaze. She was beautiful in a quiet, understated way. Not the kingdom-toppling beauty of Aveline, but beautiful nonetheless.

In the reflection, her hair remained black and her eyes stayed dark. Unremarkable colors in a world where the truly favored often bore striking signs of divine blessing—silver eyes, crimson hair, or golden skin. She had always blended into crowds. Invisible.

Ordinary. And to the prestigious Solvaine Clan, one of the Eight Great Clans of the continent, that had been unforgivable.

Yet that wasn't what made her hands tremble. It was her face. This was her face from years ago—before the marriage, before the withering, before everything had gone so terribly wrong.

She set the mirror down and pinched her arm hard. Sharp pain bloomed instantly, bringing tears to her eyes. The pain proved this was no dream.

Seraphel stood frozen in disbelief, her mind struggling to accept what seemed impossible. Then a sharp knock shattered the silence.

"Lady Seraphel?"

The voice was painfully familiar. Her head snapped toward the door just as it creaked open, and a young woman stepped inside

carrying a small wooden tray.

Elara.

Her maid. Her only friend. The girl who had died alone because Seraphel had abandoned her.

Something shattered inside her chest. Without thinking, she crossed the room in quick, desperate strides and threw her arms around

Elara. The tray rattled violently, nearly slipping from the maid's grasp as Seraphel buried her face against her shoulder. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

Elara stiffened immediately, her arms locking at her sides. "M-My lady? What's wrong? Are you hurt? Did you have a nightmare?"

Seraphel couldn't answer. She simply held on tighter, quietly sobbing against the familiar scent of cheap lavender and mountain air that always clung to Elara.

In her previous life, she had never truly been close to her maid. She had never appreciated her. When the Solvaine Clan summoned her back to the main estate, she had left Elara behind without a second thought, too consumed by her desperate need for her family's approval. By the time she learned of Elara's death, years had already passed. She had been a Viscountess then, trapped in a cold and loveless marriage, and the news had come so casually from a passing servant.

But now… Elara was here and she was Alive.

After a long moment, Seraphel finally stepped back and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Elara stared at her with wide, frightened eyes while adjusting the tray in her hands.

"My lady… please, what year is this?"

The question escaped before she could stop herself.

Elara blinked, then blinked again. "What year?" she repeated, looking around the room as though searching for invisible ghosts. "It's the tenth month of the eight hundred and seventh year after the Great War." Her brow furrowed as she set the tray down with a soft clatter. "Why do you ask? Are you sure you're feeling alright? You look dreadfully pale. Did you forget your lunch again? Was it not

to your liking?"

Eight hundred and seven.

Seraphel felt her knees weaken. Turning away, she walked to the window and braced her trembling hands against the wooden sill.

The heavens had answered her final prayer. She had been reborn—sent back to a time before everything had gone wrong.

"My lady, can you please stop ignoring your own welfare?" Elara's voice broke through her thoughts, carrying that familiar scolding tone Seraphel remembered so well. The young maid had been with her since childhood and was far less afraid of speaking her mind than most servants. Hearing that voice again filled Seraphel with a quiet joy she could hardly describe.

"You cannot rely on your family to take care of you," Elara continued while fluffing the pillows and straightening the worn bedding.

Her voice lowered slightly, tinged with bitterness. "They've forgotten your birthday for the past few years now. I know it sounds harsh coming from me, but they've abandoned us here in this shed." She paused. "We should try to live our own lives instead."

Seraphel glanced toward the table. Her untouched lunch sat there waiting—a bowl of cold rice accompanied by a small serving of pickled vegetables. Simple. Plain. In the year 807, she was seventeen years old. And Aveline, who had recently turned eighteen

without receiving the Immortal Function, would soon make her way to this forgotten mountain shack and drag Seraphel back into the grand web of lies that had ruined her life.

"Elara is right," Seraphel said softly as she turned from the window. "I should eat."

She sat down and picked up the wooden bowl. The rice was plain and barely warm, yet she ate without the slightest complaint. In her previous life, after losing the Immortal Function, her body had become as cold as a corpse, slowly withering from the inside out.

Compared to that endless torment, this meal felt like a luxury.

As she ate, she noticed Elara watching from beside the bed, the maid's eyes growing suspiciously misty.

"Don't cry," Seraphel said gently.

"I'm not crying." Elara sniffled and aggressively wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I'm just… glad you're eating, my lady.

You really need to take better care of yourself instead of starving for people who aren't even looking."

Seraphel set down her bowl. Her chest tightened—not with pain, but with affection. She looked at Elara properly. The girl was only sixteen, with a round youthful face and fierce, kind eyes. She had always been there, quietly looking after Seraphel even when the

Solvaine Clan had completely forgotten she existed. And Seraphel had never once shown her the appreciation she deserved.

Rising to her feet, she walked over and gently took Elara's hands in her own, forcing the startled maid to meet her gaze. Then she smiled—a bright, genuine smile, the first real one she had worn in an entire lifetime.

"Dear Elara," Seraphel said warmly, "will you teach me how to hunt?"

Elara's mouth fell open. "H-Hunt? My lady, you are a noble daughter of the Solvaine Clan. I only know how to set crude rabbit snares because—"

"You're right about everything," Seraphel interrupted gently, her grip tightening with a certainty she had never possessed before. "I

cannot keep wallowing in self-pity while waiting for letters that will never come." Her dark eyes drifted toward the snowy mountains beyond the window. "I will take charge of my own life." Then she looked back at Elara. "And I want to start by learning how to hunt."

Dream or not, this was a second chance. A chance to live without regrets.

And soon… she would be hunting something far more dangerous than wild game hidden within these snowy woods. She would be hunting the people who had wronged her.