Chapter 1: The Cold Duke's Poison

The last thing Lyra remembered was the blinding glare of a truck’s headlights, the screech of tires, and her iced coffee shattering against the asphalt.

The next thing she knew, she was gasping for air in a plush, velvet-canopied bed, surrounded by silk drapery and the suffocating scent of dark mahogany and amber resin.

Where... am I?

Pain throbbed behind her temples as memories—memories that didn't belong to her—flooded her brain. A grand imperial capital. A forced political marriage. Whispers of treason. A slow, agonizing death by execution.

Lyra scrambled out of bed, her limbs heavy and awkward, and stumbled toward a tall, gilded mirror standing in the corner of the grand bedchamber.

She stared into the glass and froze.

Golden hair cascaded over pale, delicate shoulders. Violet eyes, sharp and expressive, stared back at her with wide-eyed horror. It was an ethereal, breathtaking face—and one that filled her with absolute dread.

She was Lyra von Sterling.

Not an extra. Not a background noble. She had transmigrated into the villainous duchess from the popular web novel The Obsidian Throne.

Lyra clutched the edge of the vanity, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew this story. She had binged it on her phone just last week.

In the novel, Lyra was the arrogant, cold-hearted wife of Cedric von Sterling—the feared, ice-cold Duke of the North destined to become the ultimate villain of the realm. In the original plot, Cedric’s descent into madness was fueled by betrayal, public humiliation, and a completely loveless marriage. Lyra had secretly fed military secrets to the crown prince in exchange for gold and a promise of freedom.

Eventually, Cedric discovered her treason. Driven over the edge, he executed Lyra himself, launched a bloody civil war, and burned the empire to ashes before meeting his own horrific end at the hands of the story's hero.

I turned into the doom trigger, Lyra thought, pressing a trembling hand to her forehead. And if my memory serves... today is the day of the Northern Winter Gala.

According to the novel, tonight was the exact night the original Lyra was supposed to slip a mild, debilitating poison into Cedric's wine—just enough to weaken his stance before the Imperial Council tomorrow, proving her utility to the crown prince.

If I poison him tonight, my fate is sealed. I have three years before he executes me.

Lyra straightened her spine, staring at her reflection. No. I am not dying twice. If I want to survive, I have to keep Cedric from turning into a monster. I have to rewrite his fate.

The heavy oak doors of the bedchamber swung open without a knock.

In walked Cedric.

The novel's descriptions hadn't done him justice. He was imposing, impossibly handsome, with dark hair falling over a sharp, angular jawline. His eyes were the color of frozen iron—devoid of warmth, calculating, and perpetually guarded.

He didn't even look at her as he walked toward his desk, unbuckling his heavy sword belt and letting it drop onto the table with a dull thud.

"You're awake," Cedric said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that sent a chill down her spine. "The physician said it was merely an episode of hysteria. Try not to make a scene in front of the estate servants next time."

In the original story, the original Lyra would have thrown a crystal glass at his head or sneered about his barbaric Northern roots. But Lyra took a deep, steadying breath, stepping into her new reality.

"I'm sorry for worrying you, Cedric," she said softly.

Cedric froze mid-motion. His dark eyes snapped toward her, flickering with a flash of genuine shock before instantly narrowing into sharp suspicion.

"What did you just call me?" he asked quietly.

"Cedric," she repeated, taking a tentative step closer while maintaining a respectful distance. "And I meant it. Thank you for bringing the physician."

"Are you feverish?" Cedric stepped forward, his tall frame casting a long shadow over her. His posture remained rigid, his gaze searching her face like an investigator looking for a clue. "Or is this another ploy to get me to grant your father access to the Northern iron mines?"

"Neither," Lyra replied, looking him straight in his icy eyes without flinching. "I'm just tired of us treating each other like enemies in our own home."

For a long, agonizing moment, silence stretched across the vast chamber. Cedric studied her with intense scrutiny, searching for any sign of mockery or deceit. Finding none, his brow furrowed slightly. He turned on his heel, his dark cloak swirling around him.

"Rest, Lyra," he said, his tone clipped. "The gala begins in two hours. Don't waste your breath on foolish sentiment."

He swept out of the room, shutting the heavy door behind him.

Lyra let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She glanced at her dressing table, where a tiny, unlabeled glass vial rested quietly beneath a pile of lace handkerchiefs.

She walked over, picked up the vial of poison, and without hesitation, poured its contents down the drain of the washbasin, washing it away with cold water.

Step one complete, she thought, her eyes glittering with resolve. Now, time to face the gala.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***