The ceiling above me was the color of dust faded white, cracked along the edges like old porcelain. A slow, rhythmic sound tugged me back into consciousness. Drip. Drip. Drip. Rain, perhaps, slipping through the half-closed window and tapping on the marble floor. My head throbbed, a dull reminder of the fall that had ended one life and begun another.
For a moment, I lay still, listening. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender too clean for a battlefield, too soft for a warrior. The sheets beneath my hands were silk, smooth but foreign. This wasn't my command tent, nor the cold ground of Norvale's fields. This was… home. Or rather, someone else's version of it.
When I finally opened my eyes, sunlight sliced through the curtains, painting pale gold stripes across the room. The walls were adorned with delicate paintings flowers, birds, too many smiles. All of it felt wrong, like a stage set built for a girl who no longer existed.
I pushed myself up, ignoring the weakness in my limbs. My reflection stared back from the vanity mirror a familiar face, yet softer, more fragile. Same sharp jawline. Same dark eyes. But the fire behind them had changed. It wasn't the naive glow of a girl begging for love. It was the calm, contained blaze of someone who had already burned once and survived.
I tested my fingers, flexed them, then my arms. The body responded slower than mine used to, but there was strength hiding beneath the surface. A warrior's instincts never die; they just wait for the right moment to wake.
A knock came at the door. Light, hesitant.
"Miss Emily, are you awake?" The voice belonged to a maid young, nervous. "Madam said you're not to strain yourself. Doctor said you hit your head quite badly."
"Tell Madam I'm fine," I said, my tone softer than I intended. The maid froze, then hurried off. My voice carried the authority of someone she didn't expect to have it.
As soon as the footsteps faded, I slipped out of bed. My legs trembled at first, but I steadied myself by the edge of the table. Every motion reminded me this wasn't my body but it was mine now, and I would shape it into something unstoppable.
I wandered to the window. Outside, the Smith estate gleamed like a gilded prison gardens trimmed to perfection, servants moving like clockwork, each step rehearsed under the watchful eyes of wealth. It wasn't a home. It was a showpiece for people desperate to appear powerful.
A soft sound drifted from below voices in the drawing room. I leaned closer, letting the curtain conceal me.
"…she's awake?" That was my stepmother's voice sweet, honeyed, and sharp beneath the surface. "Good. Make sure she doesn't go anywhere near Timothy's people. I don't want her embarrassing us again."
My chest tightened. So they were already talking about the marriage. Even in this body, even after death, fate refused to give me peace.
Then another voice joined hers, one I recognized even before my pulse quickened.
"Don't worry, Mother," said Stephanie. "She can barely stand. No one would want her anyway."
Stephanie. The serpent with perfect curls and a smile that could slice skin. My so-called sister. The one who had pushed me no, her to her death.
They both laughed. The sound of it made something cold settle in my bones.
I moved from the window, silent as breath, and began to explore the room. Every drawer, every hidden corner searching not for keepsakes but for truths. The original Emily's life was scattered here: an unfinished sketch of a boy's face, a crumpled letter addressed to "Benjamin," and a diary with pages torn out.
I skimmed what was left. Fragments of heartbreak. Pleas for her father's affection. Descriptions of Stephanie's cruelty softened with denial. The kind of pain that leaves a girl hollow long before she dies.
No more. Not this time.
I found a small, locked chest beneath the bed and picked it open with a hairpin. Inside were medical reports, legal papers, and a note signed by her father. Marriage Contract "Timothy Blackwood"
So it was true. They were selling her off like livestock, feeding her to a man the world called a monster.
I smiled faintly.
Monsters, I could handle. Betrayers I would burn.
I stood before the mirror again. "They think I'm broken," I whispered to the reflection. "Let them."
For a heartbeat, I thought I saw the faintest shadow of my old self armor-clad, blood-soaked, alive with purpose standing behind me. Then it was gone, swallowed by the morning light.
From somewhere below, the front door slammed. Laughter echoed. Stephanie's, unmistakably. The rhythm of my heartbeat steadied, each thud a vow.
I would play their game. Smile when they expect tears. Obey when they demand rebellion. And when the moment came, I would take back everything my name, my power, my throne.
The faint smell of rain drifted through the open window. I drew in a deep breath, steady and deliberate. My new life had begun.
And this time, I would not die easily.
I had barely settled by the window when the door clicked open again. Stephanie glided in, her heels soft on the polished floor. She carried that same careless smile, the one that always made me want to reach for a sword and smile back with blood on my hands.
"Oh, you're awake," she said, voice sweet, honeyed. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep through the entire morning. Father would be furious."
I studied her carefully, letting my eyes linger on the slight curl of her lip, the way her hands rested casually at her sides. Every inch of her screamed confidence, entitlement. Someone who believed the world was theirs for the taking.
"You've been busy while I was asleep," I said, voice steady. "Planning more ways to humiliate me, I imagine?"
Her smile faltered, just slightly, before she recovered. "Humiliate? Emily, you exaggerate. I merely point out… realities. Father only wants what's best for the family."
I laughed softly, a sound that felt foreign in this delicate body. "Best for the family? You mean best for yourself. You've been stealing from me my life, my love, even my standing. And you've been doing it with a smile on your face."
Stephanie's eyes flickered annoyance, surprise, a hint of fear buried deep. But she masked it. "Careful," she said, tilting her head. "Your stepmother might not like it if you speak that way."
"Then perhaps she should spend less time pretending to care," I murmured, moving closer, letting the weight of my gaze press against her carefully constructed arrogance.
Stephanie stepped back, her confidence wobbled for a heartbeat just long enough for me to see it. "You're… different," she said, voice tight. "I don't know what happened while you were asleep, but… you're not the same Emily Smith I knew."
"Good," I said softly. "Because the Emily you knew? She was weak. I don't exist anymore."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "We'll see about that."
She turned and walked toward the door, clicking her heels like a countdown. "Don't get too comfortable. Father will be home soon, and you'll answer for everything."
The door shut. Silence.
I leaned against the wall, letting out a slow breath. That was the spark I needed a tiny flicker of fear in someone who thought they were untouchable. The game had begun.
And I? I was ready to play.