Grace's Vow of Vengeance
In her past life, Grace Adler mistakenly identified her savior and was framed by the Sixth Prince, Xavier Windsor, and his concubine, Lillian Bennett, leading to her family's tragic demise. This time, with the memories of her past, Grace outsmarts Lillian, distances herself from Xavier, and helps the deposed Crown Prince, Roderick Windsor, reclaim his throne—only to discover that he is her true savior...
EP 1: Grace Adler, having lived through the betrayal and demise of her family at the hands of Xavier Windsor and Lillian Bennett, finds herself mysteriously transported back in time three years. Armed with the knowledge of her tragic past, she vows to exact revenge on those who wronged her, starting with avoiding the mistakes that led to her family's downfall.Will Grace's foreknowledge be enough to alter her fate and bring justice to her enemies?
Ep Review
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Grace's Return: The Reversal of Fate — The Crimson Gambit and the Jade Lie
If you walked into the Westoria Empire Execution Ground expecting a standard royal purge—traitors executed, crowds silenced, power reaffirmed—you’d have missed the real performance entirely. Because what unfolded wasn’t a sentencing. It was a *theater of exposure*, staged by a woman in red who knew the script better than the playwright. Grace Adler didn’t go to the gallows. She went to the stage. And she rewrote the ending mid-scene. Let’s start with the setup: three figures in white robes, bound, kneeling on the raised platform. One lies prone—arrow through the chest. Another kneels, head bowed, shoulders shaking. The third—Mrs. Adler, Grace’s mother—collapses beside her husband, her cry cut short by a guard’s boot. Standard tragic tableau. Except the camera doesn’t linger on them. It cuts *up*. To the balcony. To Grace, standing between Emperor Xavier Windsor and Empress Lillian Bennett, her hands resting lightly on the railing, her crimson robe stark against the gray stone. Her hair is pinned high, adorned with gold phoenixes and dangling tassels—but her forehead bears a smudge of red, shaped like a heart, now cracked down the middle. That detail matters. It’s not ceremonial makeup. It’s *blood*, applied deliberately, like war paint. And she’s not looking down at her family. She’s watching Xavier’s hands. Because here’s what the subtitles won’t tell you: the arrow wasn’t fired by the executioner. It was drawn by Lillian. With Xavier’s guidance. His left hand rests over hers on the bow, his right index finger tracing the shaft—not to aim, but to *adjust*. And Lillian? Her eyes flicker toward Grace, not the targets. A micro-expression: not cruelty, but *apology*. Or perhaps confirmation. Grace sees it. Her lips press into a thin line. Not anger. *Clarity.* She knows the arrow was meant to miss. Or rather—she knows it was meant to *land somewhere else*. Then the shift. Grace doesn’t beg. Doesn’t scream. She *bows*. Deeply, formally, the kind of bow reserved for sovereigns—not condemned kin. And when she rises, her voice cuts through the silence like a blade: “You honor truth with spectacle, Your Majesty. But truth doesn’t wear chains. It wears *memory*.” The guards tense. Xavier doesn’t react. Lillian’s fingers tighten on the bow. And Grace walks—not toward the platform, but *along* the balcony, her sandals whispering on the wood, until she stands directly behind Xavier. She doesn’t touch him. She doesn’t need to. She simply says, “The pendant. The one you took from me the night Father was arrested. Show it to them.” A beat. The wind stirs her sleeves. Xavier exhales—softly, almost imperceptibly—and reaches for his belt. The jade crescent pendant slides free. It’s simple, unadorned, except for the red bead at its apex and the faint etching along its curve: *“Xin Cheng”*. True Oath. The same phrase carved into the lintel of the old training hall where Xavier, Grace, and the Grand General once sparred beneath the willow trees. The camera zooms in—not on the pendant, but on Grace’s eyes. They’re dry. Clear. Full of something far more dangerous than tears: *certainty*. Now, the flashback. Three years prior. The Prince’s Manor. Soft light, cherry blossoms drifting through open screens. Young Grace, dressed in pale lavender silk with embroidered butterflies, sits cross-legged on a tatami mat. Beside her, Prince Xavier—still in green robes, his crown absent, his posture relaxed. He hands her a small lacquered box. Inside: the same pendant. “For when the world forgets,” he says, his voice warm, unguarded. “Remember who stood with you when the sky fell.” She smiles—not the practiced smile of a courtier, but the genuine one of a girl who trusts the boy beside her. Then Consort Bella enters. Not with fanfare, but with silence. Her black robes swallow the light. She doesn’t speak. She simply places a scroll on the table. Grace reads it. Her smile vanishes. Xavier’s hand covers hers. “We’ll handle this,” he murmurs. But his eyes—already shadowed—betray doubt. That’s the fracture point. The moment loyalty curdled into suspicion. Not because Grace betrayed him. Because *Bella* made him believe she had. Back in the present, Grace takes the pendant from Xavier’s hand. Not snatching. Not demanding. *Accepting*. As if reclaiming stolen property. She holds it up, letting the sun catch the jade’s translucence. Then, without warning, she drops it—not toward the ground, but *through* the railing slats, letting it fall in slow motion toward the platform. It lands beside the Grand General’s outstretched hand. He stirs. His eyes open. He sees it. And in that second, everything changes. He doesn’t reach for it. He *nods*. A single, imperceptible tilt of the chin. The signal. The confirmation. The lie is exposed. What follows isn’t chaos. It’s *silence*. Deeper than any roar. The guards lower their spears. Lillian steps back, her face pale, her earlier composure shattered. Xavier remains still—but his gaze flicks to Bella’s empty seat behind them. She’s not there. She vanished the moment Grace spoke the words *“True Oath.”* Because Bella knew. She knew the pendant was proof. Proof that the Grand General hadn’t conspired against the throne—he’d *protected* it. That the forged edict implicating him was signed in blood, not ink. And that Grace, orphaned and exiled, had spent three years gathering evidence, waiting for the right moment to return—not as a supplicant, but as a witness. Grace doesn’t stop there. She turns, walks to the edge, and leaps. Not in despair. In *delivery*. Her body arcs, crimson fabric flaring like a banner, sunlight haloing her silhouette. She lands softly—not on stone, but on the white robes of her mother, breaking her fall, shielding her from the guards’ blades. She cradles Mrs. Adler’s head in her lap, whispering words no one hears, but the camera catches her lips: *“I kept the oath.”* Then the final twist. As the crowd stares, stunned, a soldier rushes forward—not to arrest Grace, but to retrieve the pendant. He kneels, picks it up… and freezes. Because etched on the underside, invisible until now, are two more characters: *“Shen Yi”*—Shen’s Legacy. The Grand General’s true name, erased from records, restored in jade. The soldier looks up. Sees Xavier. Sees Lillian. Sees Grace, still kneeling, blood mixing with dust on her robe. And he does something unexpected: he places the pendant back on the ground. Then he removes his helmet. And bows. One by one, the guards follow. Not in submission to the throne—but to *truth*. This is the genius of *Grace’s Return: The Reversal of Fate*: it understands that in imperial drama, the most lethal weapon isn’t the sword. It’s the *object*. The pendant. The arrow. The blood-marked brow. Each is a vessel for meaning, and Grace mastered their language. She didn’t fight with steel. She fought with symbolism. And she won—not by surviving the execution, but by making the execution *irrelevant*. The last shot is Grace lying on the courtyard stones, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Above her, Xavier and Lillian stand side by side, their reflections warped in a puddle of rainwater near the platform. In that reflection, Grace’s face appears—not dead, but *awake*. Her eyes open. She smiles. Not at them. At the sky. Because she knows what they don’t: the real game begins now. The throne is still occupied. The empire still stands. But the story has been rewritten. And in *Grace’s Return: The Reversal of Fate*, the victor isn’t the one who holds the sword. It’s the one who remembers the oath—and dares to speak it aloud, even as the world prepares to bury her. The crimson robe wasn’t her shroud. It was her signature. And the jade pendant? It wasn’t a relic. It was a detonator. One spark. One truth. And the whole house of cards came tumbling down—not with a crash, but with the soft, inevitable sound of a pendant hitting stone, and a daughter finally coming home.