The air in the Raven mansion was thick with the cloying scent of her stepmother's perfume, a smell that had haunted Elara’s reborn dreams for weeks. It rose from downstairs, a sickly sweet promise of fake smiles and hidden daggers. She pulled her soft pink cardigan tighter, the fabric a flimsy shield against the cold certainty that now resided within her.

Her reflection in the bedroom mirror showed a girl of fragile beauty: pale skin, wide doe eyes, and hair like spun gold. Exactly what they expected. A perfect, obedient daughter. The same girl they had stripped, bled, and buried without a second thought.

"Good morning, Elara!" her stepmother's voice chirped from below, perfectly modulated, perfectly false. Elara descended the grand staircase with practiced grace, a vision of innocence.

"Morning," she replied, her voice soft and sweet, earning a approving smile. But her heart was ice. Her father sat at the breakfast table, engrossed in his paper, oblivious. Her stepsister grinned, her lips perfectly painted, the same lips that had kissed Elara’s fiancé as he plunged a knife into her. Elara’s hands trembled, but her smile remained fixed. They thought she was still the same lamb. They didn't know she had already died once, and that this time, she would be the butcher.