The blade fell. 　A cold metallic gleam. The crowd's mockery. The faces of those who abandoned her—only one outline was painted white, erased. 　A void in the mist. No name. No voice. Nothing. Only that single absence. 　Blackthorn Evangeline opened her eyes in the darkness. 　There was a ceiling. Stone-built, familiar. A beam arching overhead, with a single spider's web hanging thin from it. （...I'm alive.） 　It took several seconds to process that thought. 　She sat up and looked at her own hands. 　No wounds. Young. The hands of her twenty-five-year-old self—no, that wasn't right. Not twenty-five. Before twenty-five, so twenty-four, or was it twenty-three, three years before— 　Something pulsed violently in her chest. She suppressed it by force of will. One breath. Then another. She steadied her breathing, feeling fear and rage surge up simultaneously, pushing the wave inward. 　Emotions could wait. First, she would confirm. 　That was the essential habit of who she was. 　She descended from the bed. The stone floor was cold. The light streaming through the window held the color of an autumn morning. 　Imperial Calendar Year 599, autumn. 　The execution had been in the early summer of Imperial Calendar Year 602. That meant three years ago— （I've gone back.） 　Evangeline took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. 　Beyond the window, the morning of the imperial capital Orthensia spread out. Across the Zelnica River, the roofs of the commercial district floated in the morning mist. The street of the noble quarter—the stone-paved road called Jade Avenue—carried no sound of carriages yet. 　She knew this city well. 　And somewhere in this city was the person who had her killed. ＊ 　Evangeline walked through Blackthorn Manor. 　The silver candelabras that should have lined the corridor were gone. Only faded rectangular marks remained on the walls. Traces where paintings had been removed. When had they been sold—or pawned? Tracing her memories from her previous life, the furnishings must have gradually disappeared over the past half-year or so. 　She passed a servant. A young maidservant gave a small bow and passed by. 　Once, this manor had housed more than forty servants. Now there were twelve. Less than half. 　She glanced into the reception room. The space left by the missing silver candelabras seemed strangely vast. Sunlight illuminated the dust. The tablecloth had lost its starch, reverting to a worn cloth. （We're declining.） 　How many times had she realized this? In her previous life too, she had watched this decay unfold. 　The Blackthorn family was one of the Seven Covenant Houses that had their names inscribed in the founding of the Valtria Empire. Six hundred years ago, the first Emperor Valtria and seven noble families had sworn a blood oath and built this empire. One of them was the "House of Black Roses"—Blackthorn. 　But that glory now existed only in history books. 　At the eastern edge of the noble quarter, somewhat removed from the mansions of other great nobles, stood this stone building, one hundred eighty years old. It was in stark contrast to the position of Duke Vestyr's residence, which occupied prime real estate one point two kilometers west of the Crystal Palace. Only the size of the grounds remained. 　When she walked to the garden, the black roses alone bloomed unchanged. 　In the cold of November, they opened their deep black-purple petals. 　Evangeline stopped. She touched one branch, confirming the sensation of its thorns. A sharp pain ran through her fingertip. （Alive.） 　While the manor crumbled, this rose must have bloomed every year. 　That was how it was, she thought. Pride sometimes lived longer than buildings. 　But pride alone could not overturn the imperial court's judgment. 　In the Imperial Court of Law—the "Hall of Balance," located in the east wing of the Crystal Palace, the sole venue for trying the grave crimes of nobles—that verdict had been handed down. Evangeline had stood there with pride. 　And her head had been severed. 　Pride alone had not been enough. ＊ 　She secluded herself in the study around the time the morning bell rang. 　A room that smelled of ink. On the shelves lay dust-covered imperial law codes, copies of diplomatic documents, and diaries of successive house lords. Evangeline took a quill and spread out paper. 　First, she would organize the structure. 　The current Emperor was Kaiser Valtria III, fifty-eight years old. Twenty-three years into his reign. There were seven ducal houses in the empire. The foremost among them was the House of Vestyr—Adrian Vestyr's house. The thirty-two-year-old duke enjoyed the Emperor's deep trust, and his influence at court surpassed that of the other dukes. 　The quill moved. Names of factions. Power dynamics at court. Who owed favors to whom, who feared whom. 　The information she had accumulated over three years in her previous life still remained in her mind. 　But— 　The quill stopped. 　She could not recall the face of the person who had first brought the evidence of treason to the court. 　Evangeline furrowed her brow. Not the name, not the voice—only the face was missing, as if sunk in mist, painted white and erased. （Not a distortion of memory.） 　She was certain of this because everything else was too vivid. The air of the courtroom that day, the whispers in the gallery, the words the scale-bearer had read at the moment of judgment—all of it was crystal clear. 　Only one person's face was absent. 　Evangeline set down her quill and looked out the window. 　The roofs of the imperial capital stretched out. Stone buildings of the noble quarter, beyond them the densely packed roofs of the commercial district, and further still the lower town of the south bank lay like a dark shadow. The Iron Fence Guard—the quasi-military organization responsible for order in the commercial and commoner districts—had its headquarters marked by a visible flag. 　Somewhere in this vast capital, that face existed. （Was it deliberately erased?） 　She began to consider the possibility calmly. 　If there existed a technique to interfere with memory—would it be an application of sigil arts? Or perhaps manipulation through some drug? Either way, only those in the upper echelons of the empire could perform such precise interference. 　Her simple plan for revenge was being forced to restructure from its foundation. 　Evangeline closed her eyes once, quietly. She recalled what she had thought just before the execution. （Will I die knowing nothing?） 　Not this time, she thought now. She had three years. This time, she would know before it ended. ＊ 　The night had grown deep. 　The candle on the study desk had burned short. Evangeline placed her hand on the desk without noticing. 　She had not yet confirmed her sigil arts. 　The sigil arts of the Blackthorn family were called "Thorn Binding." A power to restrain the movement of a target—an extension of physical ability inscribed in bloodline, not magic, but activated through concentration of will and the aid of sigil instruments. 　Approximately seventy percent of the empire's nobles possessed some aptitude for sigil arts, it was said. It never manifested in commoners. That was the proof of nobility and the foundation of power. 　Evangeline touched the bracelet on her left wrist. The silver one, with delicate craftsmanship, was a family heirloom sigil instrument. Wearing it continuously was said to aid the latent ability. 　She concentrated on the quill on the desk. 　She gathered her consciousness, calling forth the power that slumbered in her blood. 　It came—the sensation of restraint spread from her fingertips. An invisible thread seemed to wrap around the quill's shaft, that distinctive feeling. 　But. 　Evangeline's brow deepened. 　Something was different. 　In her previous life's sensation, Thorn Binding was a "tightening" force. It ensnared the target, sealing its movement. The power's form was a clear intent to restrain. 　What she felt now—had a different quality to it. Rather than binding, it was more like drawing in. Like suction. Was the power amplified, or had it transformed? 　She could not tell. 　That was the core of her unease. （My own power is unknown to me.） 　She did not doubt that intellect and strategy were her weapons. But to contend with the empire's power-holders, she also needed the physical backing of sigil arts. That foundation was wavering. 　Evangeline released her hand from the bracelet and stood. 　She walked to the window. The lights of the noble quarter outlined the night of the imperial capital. The direction of the Crystal Palace glowed white. The opposite side—the lower town of the south bank—was nearly dark. The money-lender's "Chain Ring Hall" and the illegal gambling den "Rusted Iron House" that lurked in that district would be conducting their own kinds of transactions by now. 　That darkness might be usable too. 　Gathering information would require more than just official channels. 　Evangeline gazed at her own face reflected in the window glass for a while. Jet-black hair loosely braided at the back, a refined face. Deep violet eyes. In certain light, their edges held a faint silver gleam. A slender frame with perfect posture, wrapped in a night robe embroidered in black and silver. 　Did she look twenty-five or twenty-three—it didn't matter. 　The question was what lay behind this face. （Was time rewound only for revenge?） 　That question surfaced in the quiet of the night. 　She had no answer. Only that something felt different. The fact that she had returned three years, the blank in her memory, the transformation of Thorn Binding—it seemed unlikely that these were mere coincidence. 　One candle burned out silently. ＊ 　Near dawn, Evangeline was organizing the study's drawers. 　She had not slept. That was all. On sleepless nights, it was better to keep her hands busy. 　Old documents, worn quills, fragments of a broken inkwell. In the back of the drawer was a bundle of papers someone had stuffed in and forgotten. She confirmed each sheet one by one, stacking them. 　Her fingers touched a texture different from the others. 　Not like the other papers. It had thickness and slight stiffness. 　Evangeline withdrew that paper. 　It was a sealed letter. 　The moment she saw the seal wax, her hand stopped. 　Not the Blackthorn family crest—not the black rose. An unfamiliar design was impressed into it. Two wings overlapping from left and right—a style classified in imperial sigil studies as "crossed wings," traditionally favored by secret societies and underground organizations. The mark of no house. At least, none of the Seven Dukes bore such a design. It should not have appeared in the court's sigil registry either. （This is—） 　She quickly traced through her memories of the previous three years. 　This letter did not exist. 　From autumn of Imperial Calendar Year 599 to early summer of Year 602, Evangeline had entered this study many times. She had likely opened this drawer. But the memory of seeing this letter— 　Did not exist. 　Which meant this letter had not existed in the previous timeline. Or she had not noticed it then. Or— （This timeline is not a simple do-over.） 　That thought cut across her mind. 　She placed her finger on the seal wax. 　At that moment, the imperial capital's clock tower began to chime. 　Low, thick bell sounds, one after another. Six chimes announcing the dawn. 　The morning of the noble quarter returned. Somewhere, the sound of a horse's hooves. The sense of servants beginning to move, transmitted from beyond the corridor. 　Evangeline placed the letter on the desk. 　Still sealed. 　The morning light streaming through the window illuminated the seal wax's design. Crossed wings—a mark recorded nowhere in the court, unfamiliar. 　She could open it anytime. 　But something told her—the moment she opened this, something would change. 　The face of the one w