The sky over the capital was the color of bruised plums, as if the heavens themselves were repulsed by the spectacle below.

Scarlett O'Hara, famously known across the empire as the "Wicked Woman," stood tall on the wooden execution platform. Heavy iron chains bit into her wrists, but she refused to bow. Instead, she swept her gaze across the sea of faces in the crowd. They were cheering, throwing rotten food, and screaming for her blood.

Look at them, Scarlett thought, her internal monologue dripping with venom. Hypocrites. Parasites. They cheer for my demise, completely blind to the true monsters standing right above them. They want a villain? I will give them a nightmare.

With a sudden surge of strength, she strained against her chains and glared at the laughing mob. Her voice rang out across the square, thick with raw hatred and disgust.

"Look at all of you!" Scarlett spat, her eyes burning with a cold, absolute fury. "You cheer like starved beasts for the blood of a 'monster' you yourselves created! Your smiles sicken me. Your blind obedience to a corrupt crown makes me want to vomit. I curse this land! I curse every drop of rain that falls on your crops, and I curse every breath you take in this wretched kingdom!"

The crowd's cheers faltered into uneasy whispers.

From the royal balcony overlooking the stage, Crown Prince Edward Goundra stepped forward. He looked down at Scarlett with cold, detached eyes, adjusted his military sash, and spoke.

"Silence, Scarlett!" Edward commanded, his voice booming. "Even at the edge of the abyss, you spew nothing but malice. Your reign of terror ends today. You brought this execution upon yourself through your own greed and cruelty."

Beside him, Crown Princess Elizabeth Rose stepped up, gently placing a hand on the Prince's arm. She wore a pristine white dress, looking every bit the innocent saint the public believed her to be.

"It breaks my heart that it had to come to this, Scarlett," Elizabeth said, her voice laced with a fake, theatrical sorrow. "I truly wished you would have repented. But for the peace and future of our empire, justice must be served."

Elizabeth looked down at Scarlett, and for a split second, the "innocent" princess let a cruel, victorious smirk slip across her lips. Scarlett saw it. It was the face of the woman who had framed her.

Edward raised his hand. "Executioner! Do your duty!"

The heavy blade fell.

The crowd erupted in a roar. Scarlett’s body collapsed, but her spirit refused to break. As the world began to fade and turn cold, she used the absolute last of her strength to glare directly at Edward and Elizabeth on the balcony. With blood bubbling in her throat and a voice that sounded like grinding glass, she forced out her final, venomous vow:

"Curse... you all... Mark my words... This woman... will have... her revenge..."

Slowly, her eyes dimmed, and she went still.

Edward looked down and announced to the silent, breathless crowd: "Let it be known on this spot, at this very hour, that the Wicked Woman, Scarlett O'Hara, is dead! May her evil never plague our kingdom again!"

Ten years had passed since the execution of the Wicked Woman, but the Rivershell Empire remained as cold and glittering as ever. In the grand ballroom of the imperial palace, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the suffocating weight of social expectations.

Ramela Luna, the seventeen-year-old daughter of Viscount Luna, smoothed the silk of her dark pale rose gown with trembling fingers. Unlike the other noble ladies who navigated the room with practiced ease, Ramela felt like an outsider in her own life. She was a "wallflower," often overlooked—which was exactly how she preferred it.

"Ramela, stand up straight," her fiancé, a minor noble with a sharp jaw and even sharper ambitions, hissed under his breath. "You are representing the Luna name. Try to look like you’re actually enjoying the music, and stop staring into empty space."

Ramela nodded quickly, lowering her eyes. "I’m sorry, Julian."

She couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't tell anyone that she wasn't staring into "empty space." For as long as she could remember, the world had been crowded with things others couldn't see—lingering shadows, echoes of the past, and spirits that refused to move on.

As Julian led her toward the center of the hall to pay respects to the high nobility, the temperature in the room suddenly plummeted. A violent, icy chill swept through the ballroom, though the candles didn't even flicker.

Ramela gasped, her breath hitching in her throat. There, leaning against a marble pillar just inches away from the path of the oblivious dancers, stood a woman.

She was dressed in the pale gold color dress , blood-stained are unseen remains of a once-regal gown. Her hair was a wild golden, a face of haunting beauty a rare beauty she seen, and her eyes burned like dying embers. While the rest of the nobility looked like colorful dolls, this woman looked like a storm held in human shape she smirk while looking at the crown prince and crown princess.

Ramela’s heart hammered against her ribs. Most spirits were faded and confused, but this one was vivid. The hatred radiating from her was so physical it felt like a weight on Ramela's chest.

The spirit’s gaze snapped toward Ramela. For a decade, the ghost had watched thousands of people walk right through her, but this girl... this girl had just flinched.

The spirit of Scarlett O’Hara narrowed her eyes, a slow, predatory smile creeping across her ghostly lips.

You," the ghost whispered, her voice a freezing wind in Ramela's ear. "You can see me, can't you, little bird?"

Ramela tried to look away, but her eyes were locked onto the vengeful specter. She saw the spirit glance toward the head of the room, where the handsome aging but still powerful Crown Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth sat on their thrones, laughing and sipping wine.

"Ten years I have waited for a vessel," Scarlett murmured, stepping closer until she was inches from Ramela's face. "Ten years of watching them rot in their stolen luxury. And now, I find a girl with a door left wide open."

"Julian," Ramela whimpered, clutching her fiancé's arm. "I... I feel faint. Please, can we go?"

"Don't be dramatic, Ramela," Julian snapped, not even looking at her. "The Crown Prince is about to give his toast. You will stay right here."

Scarlett let out a dry, haunting laugh that sent shivers down Ramela’s spine.

"He doesn't care for you, little girl. But I? I could make you the most powerful woman in this room. All you have to do... is let me in."

Before Ramela could scream, the icy shadow lunged forward, and the ballroom turned to pitch black.

The darkness in Ramela’s mind didn’t last long. It was pushed aside by a searing, white-hot heat that rushed through her veins like liquid fire. When her eyes finally snapped open, they were no longer the soft, hesitant brown of a timid viscount’s daughter. They were sharp, cold, and gleaming with a predatory intelligence.

Scarlett O’Hara took her first breath in ten years.

Finally, she thought, flexing Ramela’s delicate fingers. A body. A pulse. A voice.

The transition was so seamless that no one in the ballroom noticed—until the peace was shattered.

"Oh!" a shrill cry rang out.

A young noblewoman, Baroness Sheryl, purposefully lurched forward, slamming her shoulder into Ramela.

A tall crystal flute of dark red wine tipped, splashing across the front of Ramela’s dark pale rose gown gown, staining the silk like a fresh wound.

"My dress!" Sheryl shrieked, her voice loud enough to draw every eye in the room. She dropped the glass, letting it shatter at Ramela’s feet, and immediately began to sob theatrical tears.

"Why would you do that? You saw me walking here! You bumped into me on purpose, Ramela!"

The ballroom fell silent. The music died down as the guests began to whisper, their eyes judging the "clumsy" daughter of the Viscount.

Ramela—now possessed by Scarlett—didn't flinch. She didn't cry. She stood perfectly still, looking down at the red stain on her chest with a chillingly calm expression.

"Ramela!" Julian, her fiancé, stepped forward. But he didn't go to her side. He stepped toward Elara, placing a comforting hand on the Baroness's shoulder.

He looked at Ramela with nothing but disgust. "Have you no shame? Not only are you a social embarrassment, but now you’re attacking guests? Apologize to the Baroness at once!"

Scarlett felt a surge of Ramela’s lingering hurt, but she crushed it. She looked at Julian—this pathetic, social-climbing man—and then at the smirking girl crying fake tears.

"Apologize?" Scarlett spoke. The voice was Ramela’s, but the tone was terrifyingly different. It was deep, melodic, and carried a weight of authority that made the air in the room grow heavy.

She took a slow step forward, crunching a piece of the broken glass under her heel.

"You," Scarlett said, pointing a wet, wine-stained finger at Sheryl.

"You purposefully tilted your wrist at a fifteen-degree angle to ensure the wine hit my chest rather than the floor. And you," she turned her icy gaze to Julian, "my 'fiancé.' You stand beside a woman who just assaulted me and demand I bow to her?"

Julian blinked, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in her eyes. "How dare you speak to me like—"

"Silence," Scarlett commanded. The word felt like a physical slap. "I am bored of this performance. If you wanted my attention, Baroness, you didn't need to waste good wine. You simply had to ask for a lesson in manners."

Scarlett reached out, her movements lightning-fast. She grabbed a full glass of champagne from a passing servant's tray and, with a terrifyingly graceful flick of her wrist, emptied the entire contents over Sherly’s perfectly styled hair.

The ballroom gasped. Sheryl ’s fake crying turned into a genuine scream of shock.

"There," Scarlett smiled, and for the first time in a decade, the "Wicked Woman" felt truly alive.

"Now we both have something to cry about. Julian, do not bother coming to my carriage. Consider our engagement as dead as my patience."

As she turned to walk away, her eyes drifted toward the high throne where crown prince Edward and crown princess Elizabeth watched the commotion with furrowed brows.

Soon, Scarlett promised silently. The wine is just the beginning. Next time, it will be your blood.