The Wraith Reborn on Bloody Wedding Sheets
Within the Joy Chamber of Obsidian Citadel, shadows drowned every corner. Seraphina Vance’s eyes flew wide, gasping ragged, burning gulps of air as her heart hammered violently against her ribs.
She had scarce time to untangle the chaos swirling in her mind when a man’s weight crashed down upon her, pinning her fast to the wedding bed.
His hot, thick breath fanned the delicate curve of her neck, sliding over her skin to brush her earlobe before drifting toward her soft lips. Broad, long palms rested tentatively at her waist, a hesitant, restrained weight that betrayed a brutal internal struggle—whether to untie the ribbons of her bridal gown.
Seraphina Vance shuddered from head to toe. Muddled consciousness snapped into razor-sharp clarity in an instant. Frigid, blazing malice blazed in her eyes as she shoved the half-crouched man away with all her strength, a sharp, icy snarl tearing from her throat: “Do not touch me.”
Her strength was far from formidable, yet the man tumbled off her with ridiculous ease. She even caught a quiet sigh of relief before he obeyed without protest, rolling onto the edge of the mattress.
Agony split her skull. Seraphina squeezed her eyes shut tight, and when she opened them again, she had adjusted to the murk. Faint lamplight seeped through the window lattice from the corridor outside, outlining every contour of the bedchamber.
A white wedding gown embroidered with gilded scroll lions and winding roses clung to her frame; beneath her lay heavy scarlet brocade wedding quilts. Two burnt-out scarlet wedding candles stood stiff upon the table, their wicks reduced to cold ash.
Darkness shrouded the room, yet every furnishing was carved indelibly into her memory.
This was Obsidian Citadel, the nuptial chamber where she had wed Arthur Pendleton.
For five long years, she would be trapped within these walls.
But she had died long ago.
Ten years into her marriage to Arthur Pendleton, she was locked away in the Frigid Courtyard, starved for five days and five nights—until he personally lit the fire that reduced her to charred, unrecognizable ashes.
Once Queen Seraphina Vance, sovereign consort of the Windsor Realm, she had met such a hideous end.
Lord Richard Vance’s entire house had poured every resource to hoist Arthur Pendleton onto the throne and cement his reign. In return, all three hundred and eighty-one kin of the Vance line were butchered to the last soul.
From a queen bathed in the adoration of an entire kingdom to a reviled deposed disgrace—all it took was a single imperial edict from Arthur, once his crown sat secure.
Beneath the suffocating blackness, Seraphina’s cold, hollow gaze nailed the man frozen at the bed’s edge. Her fingers knotted tight beneath the brocade until her knuckles blanched white.
Visions of burning in the Frigid Courtyard and the m******e of her clan crashed over her in a tidal wave of hatred. She strangled the roiling rage bubbling in her chest, grinding three venomous words between her teeth: “Get out.”
The man lifted his head slowly, his gaze fixed on her atop the bed. He took one half-step forward before freezing mid-motion, his voice low and murky: “Princess Consort Arthur… you…”
Seraphina’s brows snapped sharply together. How dared he speak to her now? Did he fear Arthur discovering this secret tryst?
A bitter, frigid laugh escaped her, saturated with poison. If he dared address her, he knew every truth—and would never report this night to Arthur Pendleton.
Fine. That would save her much trouble.
“Did Arthur Pendleton send you? On our wedding night, he dares dispatch you to take his place and consummate this marriage in his stead?”
Her body shook uncontrollably as the words left her mouth. The humiliating revelation she had uncovered in her past life gnawed at her flesh like a swarm of venomous insects, each bite searing numb agony through her bones.
The man’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened, as if fighting a tempest of raw emotion raging inside him. After a long, heavy silence, a single strained syllable dragged itself from his throat: “Yes.”
“You are Shadow.”
The man’s frame jolted violently. He dropped to his knees in an instant, forehead bowed to the floorboards.
“Your servant, Shadow.”
His voice was naturally rich and resonant, yet it trembled now—not from fear, but a wild, barely contained fervor.
Rage churned in Seraphina’s chest. She stifled the urge to strike him dead on the spot, and spat two more words at the kneeling man: “Leave.”
Shadow did not lift his head, his tone sinking lower: “Lady Vance. Arthur Pendleton’s royal guards stand posted outside the door, watching every movement within this chamber…”
Lady Vance.
The title sliced through her like a dull blade, carving raw, bleeding wounds into her heart. She hunched inward, crippled by the torment of it all.
How cruelly ironic. Reborn as she was, she would still be forced to bear the loathed title of Princess Consort Arthur from this night onward.
Seraphina’s gaze drifted to the window frame. A figure pressed flat against the parchment pane—Arthur’s spy, sent to watch their every exchange.
Shadow rose abruptly to his feet. “Lady Vance, calm yourself. I shall take my leave now.”
He paused, jaw clamped rigid, his tone heavy with despair. “The Crown Prince refuses to share your bed tonight, hence he sent me in his place. If I refuse to come, Arthur Pendleton will grow suspicious, and send another to take my role. Lady Vance, you must understand…”
Seraphina knew every word he spoke rang true. Her palms had been pierced by her own fingernails, blood seeping thick into her skin, yet she felt no pain at all.
When she fell silent, Shadow spoke a grave warning: “If the Prince sends any object to you later, no matter what it may be—do not touch it, not for any reason.”
Seraphina slowly uncurled her bleeding fists and lifted her eyes to meet Shadow’s stare.
He held her gaze for one long, aching moment, then turned to yank the chamber door open and step out. He exchanged a few low words with the spy lurking beside the window, and his tall silhouette vanished into the endless black of the courtyard—followed by the watchful informant.
As the door hung ajar, Seraphina glimpsed tattered scarlet silk ribbons dangling limp beneath the hexagonal corridor lanterns in the yard.
Every sight before her confirmed it: Seraphina Vance had returned from the dead.
Reborn on the night of her wedding to Arthur Pendleton, within the nuptial chamber—before every tragedy had even begun to unfold.
She had shared ten years of marriage with Arthur. Once, she had believed their love genuine, unbreakable. They had borne a son, Prince Nolan, and she had reigned as the sole mistress of Obsidian Citadel.
Even after childbirth left her frail, bedridden for months, Arthur Pendleton had knelt faithfully by her bedside, tending to her and their weak infant without a flicker of impatience.
Even Lord Richard, Lady Eleanor, and their eldest son Gideon—who had once opposed their union fiercely—were deceived by his hollow, tender pretense. They had leveraged the Vance line’s centuries of military glory to elevate the isolated Arthur to emperor and secure his hold over the entire Windsor Realm.
That was why the fall of House Vance cut so deep. Her father the lord beheaded, her mother wasting away in grief, her elder brother framed and driven to slit his own throat—three hundred and eighty-one kinsmen slaughtered without mercy. She alone was the fool who had led her entire clan into ruin.
Scalding tears spilled down her cheeks, dripping onto the back of her hand braced against the bedframe. Corrosive regret crashed over her, wracking her body with violent tremors.
Visions of the Frigid Courtyard fire blazed fresh in her mind.
The twelfth day of the twelfth month, the third year of Zhenyou reign, Windsor Realm. The sky hung heavy and gray, not a single flake of snow falling through the bitter winter gloom. The ashen heavens gaped like a ravenous beast’s maw, ready to swallow this twisted world where virtue and vice had traded places.
Back then, she wore thin, tattered rags, her face gaunt and ashen, her frame hunched like a crone nearing death. She crawled across the cold stone floors of the Frigid Courtyard, five full days without sustenance, her body teetering on the brink of collapse.
Half a year prior, Arthur’s imperial edict had locked her away here, and she had not laid eyes on sunlight since.
Once, she had been the cherished jewel of Duke Vance’s estate, galloping across the western border with blade in hand, her clear laughter echoing across the northwest grasslands. She had led a hundred riders to shatter enemy battle lines, striking down their commander with her own blade, draped in unrivaled glory.
This cold, heartless fraud had trapped her in the Frigid Courtyard, tormenting her for six long months.
Five days prior, all food had been cut off—even rotten, stinking scraps were denied to her entirely.
The heavy, moldering wooden gate creaked open, billowing clouds of dust into the air.
Seraphina dragged her gaze upward, eyes bloodshot, hatred burning unbridled in her hollow sockets.
