The last thing Ash remembered was the screech of tires, the blinding glare of headlights, and the weightless sensation of his body hurtling through air. Then—*darkness*.
He awoke to the acrid sting of lavender and iron, his lungs seizing as if he'd swallowed a storm. Stone walls, veined with lichen, loomed above him, lit by the flicker of candlelight. A canopy of crimson velvet hung above, embroidered with gold thread in patterns resembling serpents and roses. His fingers trembled against silk sheets, foreign and too smooth, as a voice sliced through the haze.
"Lord Ashton. You've decided to rejoin the living."
The voice was cold, melodic, and sharp enough to draw blood. Ash turned his head, muscles screaming, and met the gaze of a woman who could only be *her*—Lady Seraphina de Voss, the Black Rose of Valencrest.
Her beauty was a weapon. Raven hair coiled into a crown of braids, framing a face carved from marble: high cheekbones, a mouth painted the color of bruised wine, and eyes like frozen violets. She stood by the window, draped in a gown of onyx satin, her posture regal yet coiled, like a dagger sheathed in velvet. Ash's throat tightened. He'd spent nights reading about her—her cunning, her cruelty, the tragic spiral that would end with her throat slit in a rain-soaked alley. *And now, he was here to die for her.*
"Catatonia doesn't suit you," Seraphina remarked, her gloved hand tracing the edge of a silver dagger on the windowsill. "Though I suppose it's preferable to your usual simpering."
Ash's mind raced. *Transmigration. The novel.* He'd become Lord Ashton Blackwell, the insignificant baron sacrificed to save the villainess in Chapter 12. In three days, he'd marry her. In three nights, he'd take a blade meant for her heart. The story was etched into his bones, yet nothing could've prepared him for the visceral reality of her presence—the way her voice dripped with disdain, yet her knuckles whitened as she gripped the dagger.
"Apologies, my lady," Ash croaked, testing the unfamiliar cadence of nobility. "I… wasn't myself."
Seraphina's lips curled. "You've never been *yourself*. A spineless pawn in your uncle's game." She stepped closer, her shadow swallowing him. "But you'll play your part, won't you? Smile prettily at the altar, then vanish quietly."
Ash's chest constricted. In the novel, Ashton had obeyed—terrified, obedient. But Ash knew the script. Knew *her* fate. Knew the way her story ended, alone and unmourned. He sat up, ignoring the dizziness. "And if I refuse to vanish?"
Her laugh was a shard of ice. "You'd defy the Duke of Valencrest? Your uncle would have your head mounted before sunset."
"Maybe I'd prefer that to a knife in the dark," Ash countered, holding her gaze.
Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or the faintest spark of curiosity. But it vanished as she turned toward the door. "Rest, Lord Blackwell. The physician says you've the constitution of a drowned rat. We can't have you collapsing before the vows."
The door slammed, leaving Ash alone with the thrum of rain against glass. He stumbled to his feet, legs wobbling, and lurched toward a gilded mirror. The face staring back was unfamiliar—pale, angular, with ash-brown hair and eyes like storm clouds. *A side character. A footnote.*
"Three days," he muttered.
In the novel, Ashton's death was a contrivance, a cheap catalyst for Seraphina's downfall. But Ash had read every page, memorized every twist. He knew the assassin would strike at the masquerade ball, knew the exact moment the chandelier would fall. He could save her. He could *change* it.
But survival? That required more than heroics. It required becoming someone the story didn't see coming.
---
**Scene Break**
The servants avoided his eyes as they dressed him in midnight-blue finery, fingers trembling as they fastened silver buttons. "His Grace demands your presence in the solar," one whispered, as though the Duke might hear through the walls.
Ash's uncle, Magnus Blackwell, was a bull of a man with a beard streaked with gray and eyes like flint. He stood before a map of the realm, a goblet of wine in hand. "You'll wed the de Voss girl. You'll smile. You'll bed her. And when her brother's rebellion is crushed, you'll hand me her head."
Ash's stomach churned. In the novel, Ashton had agreed, too cowardly to resist. But Ash bowed his head, masking his defiance. "As you command, Uncle."
*Liar*, he thought. *Survivor.*
---
**Scene Break**
That evening, Ash wandered the castle's labyrinthine halls, memorizing exits, hiding spots, the way the moonlight pooled in the eastern corridor. He paused at the library, its doors ajar, and heard the rustle of parchment.
Seraphina stood by a mahogany desk, her gloves discarded, fingers tracing the pages of a leather-bound book. Her shoulders slumped, just slightly, and in the candlelight, she looked younger—vulnerable.
"You read," Ash said softly.
She stiffened, slamming the book shut. "Poetry. A foolish indulgence."
"What kind?"
Her gaze cut to him, wary. "Sonnets. Of lost things."
Ash stepped closer, heart pounding. "Maybe some things aren't meant to stay lost."
For a breath, her mask slipped. Then she laughed, cold and hollow. "Save your pretty words for the wedding, Lord Blackwell. They'll mean nothing when the knives come out."
But as Ash left, he glanced back. Seraphina had reopened the book, her fingertips lingering on the page like a caress.
---
**Chapter End Hook:**
That night, Ash penned a letter with hands steadier than he felt, sealing it with a drop of black wax. *To the Alchemist of the Undercity—a man the story forgot.* The first move in a game the novel never planned for.
Three days until the wedding. Three days until death.
But Ash had never been good at following scripts.