── 𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓔𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝓜𝐀𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝅄 ݁ ⏜



❝ 𝐈𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. ❞

✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓟𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



You wake once more, in yet another life, staring up at the silken drapes hanging above. The morning light filters through them like honey, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. But to you, it's just another day, another cycle in an endless string of lifetimes that have blurred into a mind-numbing monotony. The weight of it all sits heavily on your chest, an exhaustion that goes beyond anything physical, settling into your very bones. You breathe out a long, slow sigh, a sound thick with the weariness of someone who has lived too many lives, played too many roles, and lost themselves somewhere along the way.

You're not even surprised anymore. The initial shock of waking up in new bodies, in new worlds, has long since faded. Now, all that remains is a dull, bone-deep fatigue. You don't scream or shout. You don't ask why this is happening to you. The will to resist, to question, was beaten out of you several lives ago. Now, you only whisper hoarsely into the silence of the room, "Not again..."

But no one answers. No one ever does.

Your limbs feel heavy, as though the weight of every past existence presses down on you, pinning you in place. Yet you manage to sit up, because you always do, don't you? Even when every fibre of your being begs you to just stay still, to let the world pass you by. You could refuse, you suppose. You could simply lie here, but the story would find a way to move on without you, drag you along regardless. So, you push yourself upright, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of a new body. The hair—this time long, dark, pooling around your shoulders like liquid night—brushes your skin as you move.

It doesn't feel like yours. None of it does. The body, the hair, the eyes—whatever colour they are today, for they're always something unusual, something striking, befitting the role you've been cast in. Green, perhaps, or violet, or an icy shade of blue. The kind of eyes that would belong to a villainess in one of those fairytales.

And you know that's what you are.

You don't look in the mirror yet. You try to avoid it for as long as possible. Mirrors are cruel in these lives. They show you a face that isn't your own, a face that shifts and changes with each cycle, but never feels like it belongs to you. You dread that first glimpse, knowing what you'll see—beauty, perfection, but hollow. It's a mask, worn over and over again. It never truly fits. Once, you remembered what you looked like, what your real face was, but now... Now, it's all slipping away, isn't it? Every piece of your true self, crumbling and fading like sand through your fingers.

The knock at the door interrupts the silence, sharp and sudden. You flinch, though you've heard it a hundred times before. The maid enters without waiting for your permission—a young girl, too young to know the weight of the world you carry. She bows quickly, head lowered, as if afraid to meet your eyes.

"Good morning, Lady [Name]," she says, her voice thin and quivering with nervousness. "The Duke requests your presence at breakfast."

The Duke. Your father, in this life. Always the same. He's a man whose ambitions reach far beyond your desire to entertain them. He'll expect you to play your part, to fit into the story. You don't even have the energy to be annoyed by it anymore.

"I'll be down shortly," you murmur, though even speaking feels like an effort.

The maid, clearly relieved to have avoided your supposed wrath—because villainesses are meant to be wrathful, aren't they?—quickly retreats. You're left in the silence again, sitting on the edge of the bed. The rings on your fingers catch the morning light, the gemstones gleaming. Elegant hands, slim, perfect. The hands of someone who has never known work, someone born into wealth and power.

The hands of a villainess.

But they aren't your hands, are they? They belong to whoever you're supposed to be in this life. Another noblewoman, another antagonist in another heroine's story. You know how this goes. You've played the part a thousand times before. The sweet, pure-hearted girl will soon arrive, her innocence and charm winning over the prince, and you... You'll be cast aside, branded as jealous, manipulative, cruel. You'll meet your end, whether it be in disgrace, in exile, or at the edge of a blade.

You've tried to escape the story before. You've played your role perfectly, hoping that perhaps this time, if you changed the script, things would turn out differently. But they never do. The story bends, twists, forces you into that same tragic end no matter what you do. You've tried kindness, tried removing yourself from the narrative, even supported the heroine, but the result is always the same.

Every single time.

With a heavy sigh, you force yourself to your feet, dreading the moment, but knowing you must face it. The mirror stands across the room, tall and gleaming, its surface an inevitable reflection of the lie you inhabit. You step towards it, the dread curling in your stomach, but you refuse to shy away. You won't give the story the satisfaction of your fear.

When you look, the face staring back is, of course, breathtakingly beautiful. Dark, glossy hair, eyes that glitter like gemstones, skin flawless in its pale perfection. You should be proud of it, shouldn't you? People would kill to have a face like this. But to you, it's a prison, another mask you never chose.

"This isn't me," you whisper, fingers brushing your cheek. It feels foreign beneath your touch, like you're made of something else. Something unreal. "This has never been me."

The reflection, as always, offers no answer.

You turn away from it, unable to bear it any longer. You already know what comes next. You'll go down to breakfast. You'll exchange pleasantries with the Duke. You'll hear about the arrival of the heroine, the girl who will soon take everything from you. But this time, you won't fight. You're too exhausted for that.

If they want you to be the villainess, fine. Let them have their story. But this time, you'll find a way out before it ends. You'll disappear, far from the court, far from the expectations and the schemes. You'll find peace, finally. Or perhaps you'll disappear altogether. Perhaps that's the only true escape from the cycle you've been caught in for so long.

One way or another, this time, you're not going to fall.



───────── ⟡ 𝜗𝜚 ‧ ⁺ ⊰ ─────────



The dining hall stretches out before you like a gilded prison, vast and oppressive in its grandeur. The ceilings soar high above, adorned with intricate frescoes that you've never cared to examine too closely, their beauty dulled by the monotony of seeing them life after life. Tall, arched windows line the walls, allowing the morning light to pour in with a merciless brightness. It's too harsh, too intrusive—filling the room with a blinding radiance that only serves to make you feel more exposed, more fragile. The sunlight seems to strip away any pretence of security, leaving you raw beneath its unyielding glare. You've always hated this room.

The table before you is a masterpiece of dark, polished wood, long enough to seat a dozen, yet only two places are set today. Ornate candelabras, flickering with candles even in the daylight, line its centre, casting an unnecessary glow that competes with the morning light. The weight of it all—the opulence, the suffocating excess—presses down on you like an iron shroud, so familiar and yet so foreign. You sit with the practised grace of someone who has lived this scene a hundred times, but inwardly, all you feel is exhaustion.

The Duke, your father in this life, sits at the opposite end of the table. His broad shoulders are draped in the finest fabrics, his posture rigid, regal—ever the picture of power and authority. His face, lined with age and hardened by ambition, is turned away from you for now, but you can still feel the heavy presence of his expectations, as palpable as the sunlight that scorches your skin. His gaze may not yet be upon you, but you know it will come, sharp and unyielding, filled with the weight of everything he demands from you.

You know what's coming. It's the same, every time.

His voice slices through the stifling silence of the room like a blade, low and commanding. He begins, without even the courtesy of a glance in your direction. His words are measured, each syllable thick with the assumption of your compliance. "There's a ball next week at the palace. The prince is expected to make his choice for a future queen soon. It's time for you to make your debut."

Ah, yes. The ball. The grand spectacle that will set everything in motion. The scene that will turn the wheels of fate once more, like a well-oiled machine grinding towards the inevitable. You can already picture it—lavish gowns, glittering chandeliers, the court whispering behind their fans as the prince makes his choice. The heroine will be there, of course. The sweet, doe-eyed girl who will capture everyone's heart, including the prince's. And you? You'll be cast aside, the villainess, forever doomed to play the part of the bitter, scheming noblewoman, fated to fall from grace.

It's all so dreadfully predictable.

You don't bother to hide your disinterest. Your hand, delicate and adorned with rings that sparkle in the hateful sunlight, rests limply on the table, fingers tracing the edge of your plate in a mindless pattern. You don't look up. You don't need to.

"I'm not going," you say, your voice flat, devoid of any emotion. It isn't a challenge, not really. Just a statement of fact, delivered without care.

For a moment, the world seems to freeze. The clink of cutlery against porcelain stops mid-motion, and the silence that follows is thick with tension, stretching on like a drawn breath that refuses to be exhaled. You can feel the Duke's gaze snap towards you, his surprise radiating through the room like a palpable force. His fork remains suspended in the air, halfway between his plate and his mouth, as if your words have momentarily disrupted the natural order of things.

"What did you say?" His voice is sharp now, cutting through the stillness, edged with disbelief. You can practically hear the gears of his mind turning, trying to process the unexpected defiance.

"I said, I'm not going," you repeat, still not bothering to lift your gaze from the untouched food before you. There's no need to look at him. You already know the expression he wears—the furrowed brow, the tightened jaw, the smouldering anger that simmers just beneath the surface of his controlled exterior. You've seen it all before.

The silence stretches out again, longer this time. You can feel the weight of his fury building, but it washes over you without effect. Once, you might have cared. Once, you might have felt a flicker of fear or guilt, the urge to please him, to be the perfect daughter he expects. But now... now you are simply tired.

His voice, when it comes again, is harder, colder. "You will attend that ball." Each word is deliberate, like a stone being placed atop your shoulders, one by one, until the weight becomes unbearable. "This is not up for debate."

Of course it isn't. It never is. In every life, it's always the same. You've always obeyed, always bent to his will, because that's what's expected of you. You've schemed and plotted, grasped for power, for favour, for the prince's attention, all in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, things would turn out differently. But no matter what you do, the story always unfolds the same way. The heroine always triumphs. You always fall.

This time, though, you can't muster the strength to play the game. Not anymore.

You finally lift your gaze, meeting his eyes for the first time. His anger is there, simmering beneath the surface, but you are beyond it. "I'm tired, Father." The words fall from your lips quietly, almost involuntarily, but once they're out, they hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

For a moment, he just stares at you, as if you've spoken in a language he doesn't understand. His face remains impassive, but you can see the faint flicker of something in his eyes—confusion, perhaps. Or maybe it's something closer to disbelief. It doesn't matter. He won't understand, not truly. How could he? He's only a part of the story, just like everyone else. A puppet, bound by the same strings, repeating the same lines, life after life.

But you're the one who remembers. You're the one who's lived through this endless cycle of expectations and failure, over and over again. And you're so, so tired.

"I will not go to the ball," you say again, more firmly this time. "I won't play this part any longer."

The silence that follows is deafening, the air between you heavy with unspoken words. You know there will be consequences for this. The Duke is not a man who tolerates defiance. But you no longer care. Let the story bend and twist however it likes. You've decided. You won't let it drag you into the same old tragedy this time.

Whatever comes next, you'll face it. You just hope it brings you the peace you've been searching for, far away from this gilded cage.

"[Name]," he says at last, his voice a low, commanding rumble that fills the room. It's laced with disapproval, a thin veneer of authority barely hiding the simmering anger beneath. "You will attend that ball."

There it is. Your name. The one constant, the one thread that binds each lifetime together. It clings to you like a curse, an unshakable reminder of the person you once were, of the life you can no longer remember. [Name]—the name feels heavy, like an iron chain wrapped around your heart, dragging you back into the same role, again and again. No matter how many lives you've lived, no matter how many bodies you've inhabited, this name remains, binding you to the same tragic fate.

You once wondered if this name was a blessing—a piece of your true self carried with you from life to life. But now, it feels like a cruel joke, a tether that keeps you from slipping into oblivion, from finally forgetting. It's a mark of who you were, and who you've lost. Even now, after centuries of being reborn into these twisted, farcical lives, it reminds you that escape is always just out of reach.

But before the Duke, your father in this life, you keep your mask firmly in place. You've learned to wear it well, the smooth veneer of composure, the cold elegance of a daughter bred for duty. Beneath it, though, you are hollow, drained by the endless repetition, the unyielding weight of your role. You meet his gaze at last, your expression unreadable, your voice as steady as ever, but every word you speak feels like armour, a shield against the inevitable.

"With all due respect, Father," you begin, the words falling from your lips with the kind of refined grace that has been drilled into you over lifetimes, "I must decline."

There is a beat of silence, long and taut. You watch the shock flicker across his face, brief but unmistakable, before his brow furrows, and his eyes narrow in disbelief. The disapproval in his gaze darkens, deepening into something colder, more dangerous. For a moment, you think perhaps you've pushed too far, but then again, what does it matter? This is just another life, another story. You know how it will end.

"You will attend that ball," the Duke repeats, slower this time, his voice clipped and precise, as though repeating himself will somehow erase your defiance. He is a man who has never been denied, not by his peers, not by his subjects, and certainly not by his daughter. His fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass, knuckles paling as his fury simmers beneath the surface.

You allow a breath of silence to pass, long enough to make the tension in the room palpable, thick as smoke. And then you continue, your voice as unwavering as ever, calm and deliberate, the words falling from your lips like the slow drip of venom.

"I have fulfilled every expectation placed upon me all my life."

Your words cut through the room like a cold wind, and for the first time, the Duke's composure falters. His eyes, hard and unyielding, fix on you with a mixture of anger and confusion. He is unused to this—this rebellion, this defiance that doesn't come laced with fear.

"You speak as if you are privy to some greater understanding," he says, his voice low and dangerous, each word sharp as a blade. "Do you think you are above your station, [Name]? Do you think you can escape the responsibilities of your title?"

His words echo in the vastness of the hall, but they feel hollow to you. How many times have you heard this exact reprimand? How many times have you bowed your head in submission, allowed the weight of duty and expectation to crush you beneath it? This time, though, you feel nothing. Only the distant thrum of exhaustion.

"I do not presume to escape my station, Father," you reply, your voice a practised melody of restraint. "I simply no longer see the value in participating in the farce that is court life."

For a moment, his gaze sharpens, his eyes darkening with a fury that could fill the room with ice. You feel the weight of his disappointment pressing down on you like a vice, but it does not hurt as it once did. It does not even stir your heart.

The Duke rises, slowly, from his chair, the scrape of wood against marble loud in the oppressive silence. He stands tall, a figure of unyielding power, but you no longer fear him. His authority, his fury, all of it is simply another act in a play you've seen countless times.

"You will attend that ball," he says again, the words ground out between clenched teeth, his posture rigid with barely controlled rage. "And you will secure a match worthy of our family's name."

It's almost laughable, the futility of it all. You've been here before. This story, this moment—it has played out in countless variations across lifetimes, and yet, it always ends the same way. You, cast as the villainess. The heroine, glowing with innocence and virtue, claiming the heart of the prince. The inevitable fall, the disgrace, the exile, or worse.

But not this time. You won't give them that satisfaction.

You rise, as gracefully as ever, smoothing the fabric of your gown, each movement deliberate and controlled. The room is still, the tension humming beneath the surface like the final note of a dying song. You lift your chin, meeting your father's gaze with quiet defiance.

Your voice, though soft, resonates through the silence, carrying with it the weight of centuries of exhaustion. There is no anger in your words, no bitterness—only the raw ache of a soul that has lived too long, carried too much.

"I simply wish to be free of it all."

For a moment, the Duke says nothing. The tension in the room swells, thick and suffocating. You can see the conflict in his eyes—the anger, the disbelief, the cold calculation of a man who cannot fathom defiance from his own blood. He clenches his fists at his sides, the skin stretched white over knuckles, but his voice, when it comes, is laced with icy contempt.

"I do not care for your tiredness," he spits, his words like shards of glass. "You are my daughter, and you will do your duty to this family, whether you wish to or not."

There it is. The reminder that you are nothing more than a pawn in his game, a piece to be used and discarded as the story demands. You've heard it before, and you will hear it again. But this time, it no longer has the power to wound you.

You turn to leave, your steps measured, your back straight. The door to the hall looms ahead, and you can feel the Duke's eyes boring into you, but you do not falter. You will attend the ball, yes, but you will not play their game.

You will find your own way out, your own peace.

And you will not look back.



───────── ⟡ 𝜗𝜚 ‧ ⁺ ⊰ ─────────



Once inside your chambers, the door clicks shut behind you with a quiet finality. You stand there, your hand still resting against the cool wood, fingers brushing over the grain as if seeking some sense of grounding in a world that no longer feels real. The room is dim, the heavy curtains drawn just enough to keep the relentless sunlight at bay, but not enough to hide the suffocating weight that presses down on you.

Your body feels impossibly heavy again, as though every step you take pulls you deeper into the earth. It's not the kind of tiredness that comes from a long day, but the exhaustion that comes from a lifetime—no, from lifetimes. The endless repetition, the constant weight of playing a role you never wanted, a role that drags you deeper into its script with every new life. You close your eyes for a moment, the coolness of the door seeping through your skin, grounding you, reminding you of the prison you're in—no bars, no locks, just the cage of your fate.

You move towards the mirror, your steps slow and reluctant. It stands there, tall and elegant, its surface gleaming faintly in the dim light, waiting for you like an old adversary. You stop before you reach it, your breath catching in your throat. You hate mirrors. You always have. Not because of what they show, but because of what they fail to show. The person reflected there isn't you—it never is. You've long since forgotten the face you were born with, the one that belonged to you before all of this started. Before the cycle.

Now, when you look into a mirror, you see a stranger. It's always the same. The face changes from life to life—sometimes with sharp cheekbones, other times soft and doll-like. But it's always beautiful, always striking. The face of a villainess. That's what they want you to be, after all. But it's not your face. It never has been.

And then there's the name. That cursed name. The one thing that refuses to change, no matter how many lives you live, no matter what new form you take. [Name]. It follows you like a shadow, anchoring you to the past, dragging you into the same fate time and time again. You've asked yourself so many times why. Why that name? Why is that the one thread that ties you to each life? Is it a cruel reminder of your identity, of the self you can never truly escape? Or is it the universe's twisted way of mocking you, laughing at your attempts to break free?

It haunts you, that name. Every time you hear it, it sends a jolt of recognition through you, a reminder that no matter how different your appearance, no matter how far you try to run, you are always tethered to this fate. To this life of playing the villainess. And worse still, it's a name you can't forget, even as everything else slips away—your real face, your real past, the person you were before all this began.

There are moments, quiet moments like this one, where you wonder if the universe is watching, enjoying the show. Is it taunting you with the knowledge that you will always be you, no matter what mask you wear? That your curse isn't just to be reborn again and again, but to remember? To carry the weight of every mistake, every loss, every death from one life to the next, without the mercy of forgetting?

Sometimes, it feels like that's the cruelest part. Not the endless cycles. Not the doomed fate of being cast as the villainess. But the remembering. The never being able to forget the pain, the heartbreak, the betrayals. The knowledge that you are trapped, and that there is no one who truly sees you, no one who knows what it feels like to be caught in this endless loop of lives you never asked for.

You stop yourself before you get too close to the mirror. You don't want to see it. You don't want to see her—the beautiful, tragic figure who stares back at you with those cold, unrecognisable eyes. The one with perfect skin, hair that falls like a dark waterfall over her shoulders, eyes framed by lashes too thick, too lovely to belong to anyone real. The world sees her as a villainess, the antagonist in every story, but in your heart, you know she is nothing more than a reflection of what they expect you to be.

You aren't her. Not anymore.

You are tired. So, so tired.

Tired of being the villainess. Tired of living the same life in different guises, with the same story playing out no matter what you do. You're tired of the endless plotting, the whispered gossip of the court, the way they look at you with both admiration and fear. You're tired of the name that follows you like a curse, binding you to a fate you can't escape.

Maybe this time, you think, as you step away from the mirror, avoiding the reflection altogether. Maybe this time, you'll find a way out. You've tried before, of course. Countless times. You've been obedient, you've rebelled, you've done everything the story demands of you, and you've fought against it with all your strength. But in the end, the story always finds a way to pull you back in. You've always ended up in the same place—cast aside, defeated, humiliated.

But maybe, this time, things will be different.

The thought lingers in the air like a whisper, the kind that curls at the edges of your mind, soft and insistent. You've learned not to hope, not really. Hope only makes the fall harder. But still, the thought remains.

Maybe this time, you'll find a way to break free.

Or maybe, this time, you'll simply let go.



✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓔𝐍𝐃 𝓞𝐅 𝓟𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝓘𝐒 𝓣𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃!

𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦! 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘹 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴! 𝘧𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

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