Gillian POV:
The wind carried the rich scent of red wine from a corner tavern. That smell, mixed with the frigid air, slammed another memory into me, one even more visceral than the first.
The "birthday banquet" they threw for me in my past life, after I refused to be exiled. And the poisoned wine.
The memory was vivid. The dining room flickered with candlelight. My father, Carroll, raised his glass, his face beaming. "Welcome home to our hero!"
My mother, Annis, poured me a glass of deep red wine herself. Her perfectly manicured fingers brushed the rim of the cup as she smiled at me, her voice soft and warm. "Drink this, Gillian. It's to celebrate your victory."
I remembered the surge of emotion, the foolish gratitude. I thought they had finally accepted me, forgiven me for the "sin" of being a daughter.
I drank it without hesitation.
A strange numbness started in my stomach the moment the wine went down, spreading quickly to my limbs. My fork and knife clattered onto the floor.
Annis's smile vanished. It was replaced by an icy disgust. "Take her to the basement," she ordered the servants.
I tried to stand, but my muscles were like water. Two large servants hauled me from my chair and dragged me toward the cold, dark cellar. I looked back at my father. He wouldn't meet my eyes.
In the basement, my brother Johnathan was already waiting. He was toying with a heavy iron hammer.
"Why couldn't you just be obedient, sister?" he asked, walking over and gripping my chin. "A woman, playing with swords and making the Joseph name a joke among the nobility. And now you want to steal the glory that should be mine?"
Annis followed him down the stairs, looking down at me where I lay on the damp stone floor. "This is for your own good, Gillian. You can't wield a sword anymore. It will ruin your marriage prospects, ruin this family."
Johnathan grinned, a predator's smile. He forced my right hand onto a stone block, pinning it there. He raised the hammer.
And brought it down.
Crack.
The pain was a white-hot nova that exploded from my hand up my arm. My vision went black for a second. Cold sweat drenched my back. The hand that had wielded the fastest sword in the empire was now a ruined mess of flesh and bone.
I convulsed, but the poison in the wine kept my muscles from coiling. I was pinned flat, like a fish on a cutting board.
He didn't stop. He did the same to my left hand.
My skill, my pride, my entire life's work-it was all destroyed in those dull, sickening impacts.
I stared at my mangled, bloody hands, at the shattered bones poking through the skin. I looked up at my cold-eyed mother and my ecstatic brother. And I finally understood.
They weren't afraid I would bring shame to the family. They were jealous. They hated me.
After that, they locked me up and only gave me enough water to sustain life. Only after Amara fully took over the identity of the "sister of the deceased hero" did they force me to take a poison that was enough to be fatal, and then torture me to death.
"Miss? Miss!"
Bryn's voice pulled me from the memory.
I looked down. My fists were clenched so tightly my nails had broken the skin of my palms, leaving four bloody crescents.
I forced my hands open, taking a deep, cold breath to steady myself. That pain was in the past. Now was the time for revenge.
I turned to Bryn. She was an orphan I'd saved from a battlefield raid, the only person in the world I trusted. "Bryn, get the package we prepared."
Though confused, she obeyed, retrieving a heavy, cloth-wrapped bundle from a corner of the carriage.
I unwrapped it. Inside was a man's military jacket, stained with dark, dried blood, and a tattered, deep-red triangular banner-the standard of a field commander.
These were the props for my "faked death." I was supposed to have burned them. Now, they had a new purpose.
"From this moment on," I told Bryn, my voice low and firm, "I am no longer Griffin Joseph. I am her grieving twin sister Gillian Joseph, who has traveled a thousand miles from the border to 'call home the soul' of her brother."
Bryn's face went pale, but she saw the iron resolve in my eyes and nodded sharply. "Yes, miss. Bryn understands."
I looked up, toward the faint silhouette of the North Gate Bridge in the distance. I knew that at this time of day, the carriage of Princess Genevieve Roth would be passing through there.
In my past life, the princess had been one of the "Wraith's" staunchest supporters, arguing in court for more supplies for the border armies. She admired my "brother."
I would use that admiration. For myself, and for the identity that had been stolen from me. I would find my first patron.
I clutched the blood-stained uniform to my chest as if I were holding my dead "brother."
"Bryn," I instructed, "you will follow behind me, holding that banner. No matter what happens, we do not stop."
I took a deep breath, letting all the sharpness and strength drain from my face. In its place, I summoned an endless, weary grief. I became a broken orphan, having just lost her only family, on the verge of collapse after a long journey.
I hugged my "brother's" last effects, and facing into the wind, I took a step.
Then I sank to my knees on the cold, snowy ground.
The first move had been made.
