The winter wind sliced through the tattered linen of my dress like a blade honed for cruelty, and I hugged my ribs tighter, teeth chattering so hard I feared they'd crack clean through my gums.
The stables reeked of hay and manure, the cold seeping into the very stones beneath my bare feet, the only warmth coming from the snorting breath of old Bess, the plow horse who'd taken to resting her head on my shoulder like she knew I had nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be.
Her coat was matted with frost, her eyes soft and sad as she nuzzled my palm, her nose warm against my cold skin, and I wondered if she, too, knew what it meant to be unwanted.
She shifted her weight slightly, pressing her side against mine, a solid, living wall against the bitter wind, and I leaned into her, my cheek resting on the rough, woolly texture of her mane, breathing in the earthy scent of hay and sweat that clung to her.
For a moment, the shivering slowed, the ache in my bones dulled, if only a little.
This is not how it was supposed to be.
The thought looped in my head, a broken record I couldn't silence, skipping over the same jagged edges of memory until they felt like scars carved into my skull, raw and bleeding no matter how many times I tried to smooth them over.
In my last life, I was twenty-seven when the end came–feverish, alone, gasping for breath in a tiny, windowless room that smelled of mildew and regret, the walls closing in on me like a coffin. I don't remember my name, or the faces of the people I'd called family, or even how the fever took hold; those details have dissolved into the fog of a half-remembered dream, blurry and indistinct, like trying to grasp smoke.
But I remember the weight of it all, the endless, gnawing hunger that wasn't just for food, the quiet, searing loneliness that settled in my bones and never left, the way I'd been the smallest, the quietest, the easiest to overlook in a brood of six siblings.
My parents weren't cruel, not really; they just didn't have enough love left to go around, not when the eldest brother needed a new uniform for his apprenticeship, when the twins had to pay for their exam tutors, when the middle sister's illness ate through every spare coin until there was nothing left for me.
I was the one who learned to eat cold rice for dinner, day after day, the grains hard and tasteless against my tongue; the one who wore hand-me-down sweaters with holes in the elbows, the fabric thin and threadbare, doing nothing to ward off the chill of our drafty apartment; the one who never got a birthday cake, never blew out a single candle, never received a toy that wasn't broken first, its parts missing, its joy long gone.
They didn't ignore me, not exactly, they just didn't see me. I was a ghost who lingered in the corners, a shadow who folded laundry while they celebrated the twins' test scores, who fetched water while they fussed over my sister's cough, who learned to speak so softly no one would bother to listen.
Once, I'd clutched a report card to my chest, my fingers trembling with the faint, foolish hope that a perfect score might finally make them see me. I'd waited until my parents were cooing over the youngest's latest Lego creation, lopsided towers held together with tape and held out the paper, my voice barely a whisper.
"I got all As," I said. My mother didn't even glance up, her hands smoothing the edges of a Lego manual like it was a masterpiece.
"That's nice, dear," she mumbled, "but can you run to the bodega? We need more eggs for your brother's omelet. He's been fussy about his breakfast lately."
I'd stared at the report card, the ink glowing bright and proud under the flickering kitchen bulb, before tucking it into the back of my closet, where it would gather dust until I forgot it existed.
Another time, I'd lingered by the front door as my parents fussed over their coats and the youngest's backpack, the boy bouncing on his toes, chattering about the diner downtown, the one with the neon sign and milkshakes thick enough to stand a spoon in.
It was a rare treat, a splurge they only allowed for the golden boy's birthdays. I'd hugged my arms tight, my throat tight with a question I'd rehearsed a hundred times. "Can I come too?" I asked, my voice small.
My father's eyes flicked to me, cold and sharp, before he turned back to adjusting the youngest's hat.
"No room in the car," he said, like it was a final answer, like I wasn't even worth a lie.
"Stay home and wash the dishes. We'll bring back a fry if we're feeling generous." The door slammed shut before I could say anything else, and I'd stood there in the quiet, empty house, listening to their laughter fade down the street, until the hunger in my stomach twisted into something sharper, colder.
The worst memory of all was the keychain. I'd saved for months, scrounging pennies from the couch cushions, skipping the stale bun I'd usually pilfer from the bodega counter, hiding every coin in a crumpled sock under my mattress until I had enough to buy the tiny, plastic dragon keychain that hung in the bodega's window.
It was cheap, its paint chipped at the edges, but it had been the first thing I'd ever wanted that wasn't a crumb of bread or a tattered book. I'd snuck to the bodega after school, my hands shaking as I handed over the coins, and clutched the keychain to my chest all the way home, giddy with the secret joy of owning something that was mine.
I'd hidden it in my closet, under the stack of web novel printouts, and dreamed of clipping it to a backpack I'd never have. A week later, I'd found it on the youngest's keyring, glinting under the kitchen light as he waved it in my face.
"Mom and Dad got me this," he'd crowed, bouncing on his heels. "It's a dragon. Isn't it cool?" I'd stared at the chipped paint, at the way my father smiled and ruffled the boy's hair, and said nothing. I never said anything anymore.
At school, it was worse. I had no buddies, no one to share a desk with at lunch, no one to walk home with after classes ended. The teachers glanced over me when calling on students, their eyes skipping to the brighter, louder kids who raised their hands high and answered with confidence, who didn't stammer when spoken to, who didn't shrink into themselves like a wilted flower.
The other teenagers, my peers ridiculed me for everything I lacked: the frayed shoes on my feet, the soles worn thin, the toes poking through holes; the lunch that was just a stale bun, wrapped in a crumpled paper towel, the dough hard as rock; the way my hands shook when I tried to write, the way my voice cracked when I spoke, the way I could never keep up in gym class, always tripping over my own feet, always the last to finish the race.
They called me "Dirty Mouse" and "Worthless" and "Nothing," shoving me into lockers when the hallways were empty, the metal cold against my back, the air thin and stale; scribbling cruel notes on my textbooks, the ink bleeding into the pages, the words burning like acid; tripping me in the playground just to watch me fall, to watch me scrape my knees and my pride, to watch me cry silent tears that no one cared to wipe away.
I had no resource to fight back, no money for nice clothes to fit in, no talent to make them respect me, no friends to stand up for me. I was just the girl who existed in the background, the one everyone forgot as soon as they turned away, the one who vanished like smoke when the bell rang and the crowd dispersed.
I'd died choking on my own loneliness, that fever burning through my bones so hot I could barely think, curled up on that hard, cold floor while my family celebrated my brother's promotion elsewhere, leaving me behind with a microwave meal I couldn't even be bothered to heat up.
The last thing I'd felt was the ache of being forgotten, the sting of being left behind, the quiet, desperate hope that someone would notice I was gone. No one did. The last thing I'd prayed for wasn't happiness, or success, or love. It was just a new start. A clean slate. A chance to be someone wanted. Someone who wouldn't fade into the walls, who wouldn't be left behind, who wouldn't be so alone.
Foolish. So foolish.
The first thing I remember of this life is the scratch of rough wool against my cheek, and a woman's cold voice hissing,
"The third daughter—she's a curse, just like her mother." I was three years old, maybe four, small and squalling, trapped in a body too tiny to hold the weight of a twenty-seven-year-old's grief, too fragile to bear the burden of a lifetime of loneliness.
I'd woken up screaming, the memory of that fever still searing my skin, the taste of that stale bun still lingering on my tongue, only to find myself in a cradle of straw, not the bed I'd known (if I could even call that thin mattress a bed).
The world around me was a cruel echo of the medieval dramas I'd binged in my past life, castles of stone and thatch, their walls high and cold; lords and ladies in velvet cloaks, their voices sharp, their smiles fake; peasants bowing low to anyone with a coat of arms, their heads bent, their spirits broken.
I'd been reborn as Hannah Bennington, the third daughter of Count Bennington, lord of the sprawling, frost-kissed territory that bore our family name.
But here's the thing about being the third daughter: when your mother dies in childbirth, her blood staining the sheets, her last breath a whisper of your name; when your father marries a woman who hates the sight of you, who sees you as nothing more than a reminder of the wife she replaced; when your step-siblings are born with silver spoons in their mouths and sharper tongues in their heads, you become nothing more than a shadow. A ghost in your own home.
A curse they can't seem to shake.
A shadow they loved to kick.
Layla, my younger step sister, only a year younger than me, but treated like a princess, her hair braided with ribbons, her dresses stitched with silk, had cut my hair with a pair of kitchen shears last week, laughing as I screamed and begged her to stop.
She'd cornered me in the larder, the door slamming shut behind her, the air thick with the smell of moldy bread and rot, and she'd grabbed a handful of my chestnut locks, yanking them so hard my eyes watered, before slicing through the strands with the blunt, rusted blades.
"Father says you're a disgrace to the Bennington name," she'd cackled, holding up a clump of my hair, the strands falling from her fingers like dead leaves.
"A bastard in all but blood. Mother says you should have died with yours." I'd cried that day, cried until my throat was raw of my eyes were swollen shut, but no one had come to help.
The servants had heard my screams, but they'd turned away, their heads down, too afraid of Lady Stephanie to intervene. My father had walked past the larder door, his boots thudding against the stone floor, but he'd never paused, never knocked, never cared.
My second brother, Kael two years older, his face always set in a lazy grin, his hands always itching for trouble, had tripped me down the stairs yesterday, watching with that familiar malice as I hit the stone floor hard enough to split my lip, hard enough to send a shooting pain up my spine.
I'd been carrying a bucket of water for the kitchen, the weight of it making my arms ache, when he'd stepped out of the shadows, his foot extending just enough to catch mine. I'd fallen forward, the bucket spilling, the water soaking my dress, the cold seeping into my bones, and Kael had laughed, a loud, cruel sound that echoed off the walls.
When I'd looked up at him, my lip bleeding, my eyes burning, he'd just shrugged, like he'd done nothing more than swat a fly. When I'd limped to the dining hall, hoping to find my father, hoping he'd finally see me, he'd just turned away, sipping his wine like my pain was nothing more than a fly buzzing in his ear.
"Stop making a fuss, Hannah," he'd said, his voice cold, his eyes never leaving his plate of roast swan. "You're always causing trouble."
My stepmother, Lady Stephanie was beautiful, with her pale skin and her red lips, her gowns of velvet and silk, her hands adorned with rings that glinted in the firelight, was the worst of them all. She never raised a hand, oh no, she was too refined for that.
She didn't need to. She wielded words like weapons, her smiles like poison, her kindness a trap that snapped shut the moment you stepped into it. She'd smile sweetly as she ordered me to scrub the castle's great hall floors until my knees bled, the rough stone scraping away the skin, the water freezing my hands until they were numb.
She'd send me to the village market with a single copper coin, knowing it wouldn't buy a loaf of bread, knowing I'd come back empty-handed and hungry, so she could shake her head and cluck her tongue and say,
"Hannah, darling, a girl who can't even do one simple task right… what use is she to House Bennington?" She'd make me sleep in the stables, on a pallet of straw, while her own children curled up in beds of silk and down, their rooms warm and cozy, their bellies full of honey cakes and roast meat.
She'd let her servants starve me, giving me nothing but moldy bread and watery soup, while her children feasted on the finest foods the territory had to offer.
She'd look at me like I was something she'd scraped off the bottom of her shoe, like I was a stain on her perfect life, like I was a curse that needed to be erased.
No one. I was no one.
I leaned my head against Bess's rough mane, and a tear slipped down my cheek, freezing almost as soon as it hit my skin, the ice sharp against my flesh. Bess huffed softly, a warm puff of air that ruffled my hair, and she lifted her head just enough to rest her chin on the top of my head, her weight gentle, not crushing, a silent comfort no human had ever given me.
I wrapped my arms around her neck, clinging to her like a lifeline, my tears soaking into her mane as I let myself cry—quiet, shuddering sobs that wracked my thin frame, tears I'd held back for years, in two lives. She didn't move, didn't pull away, just stood there with me, breathing slow and steady, her heartbeat a low, thrumming rhythm against my cheek.
In my past life, no one had ever held me when I cried. No one had ever stayed.
In my past life, I'd thought loneliness was the worst thing in the world. I'd been wrong. Loneliness was a quiet ache, a soft whisper in the dark, a weight that could be borne if you tried hard enough. This, this was a slow death.
A death by a thousand cuts, each one delivered by the people who were supposed to love me. This was the kind of pain that sears your soul, that leaves scars so deep they'll never heal, that makes you wish you'd never been born at all.
This was the kind of despair that makes you want to curl up and die, to let the winter wind take you, to let the cold claim you, because anything is better than being here, than being this.
The stable door creaked open, and I tensed, wiping my face roughly with the back of my hand, the skin raw and red. I didn't need to look to know who it was.
Kael stood in the doorway, a piece of stale bread in his hand, his eyes glinting with that familiar malice, that cruel joy that came from making me suffer.
The firelight cast long shadows over his face, turning his grin into something monstrous, something inhuman.
"Father says dinner's ready," he said, tossing the bread at my feet like I was a stray dog, like I was something beneath him. The loaf hit the dirt, crumbs scattering across the straw, the dough hard and crusty, the same kind of bread I'd eaten in my past life, the same kind of bread that had tasted like nothing and everything all at once.
"But Stephanie says you can eat with Bess. Since you two are such good friends."
I stared at the bread, at the crumbs in the dirt, at the way Kael's grin widened as he watched me, and for a second, I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab the pitchfork leaning against the wall, its tines sharp and rusted, and drive it through his smug face.
I wanted to run away, to disappear into the Whispering Woods that bordered Bennington territory, to let the wolves take me, to let the trees swallow me whole, and never come back.
I wanted to die, to end this pain, to end this suffering, because I couldn't bear it anymore. I couldn't bear being nothing. I couldn't bear being forgotten. I couldn't bear being this.
But I didn't. I just sat there, my fingers curled into fists, my nails digging into my palms, drawing blood, and watched him walk away, whistling a tune that made my blood boil, that made my heart ache, that made me want to cry until I had no tears left.
Bess nudged my hand with her nose, a soft, insistent gesture, and I looked up at her, her big, dark eyes staring back at me like she understood, like she was telling me to hold on.
This is not a new start, I thought again, but this time, there was a flicker of something else beneath the despair. A spark. A tiny, fragile thing, burning bright in the darkness, burning bright in my chest. A twenty-seven-year-old's resolve, forged in the fires of loneliness and grief, burning bright in a child's battered body.
A reminder of the girl who'd survived cold rice and frayed shoes and cruel words, who'd survived a fever and a lonely death and a rebirth that was nothing more than a nightmare. A reminder that I was stronger than this, than them, than the pain that threatened to consume me.
This is a test.
And I didn't survive my last life to die like this. Not here. Not now.
I reached down, picked up the bread, and brushed off the dirt, the crumbs sticking to my fingers, the dough rough against my palm. It was hard as a rock, but it was food. And food meant strength. Strength meant fighting back. Strength meant surviving.
I took a bite, chewing slowly, the bread tasteless against my tongue, the same as it had been in my past life. Bess lowered her head, resting it on my shoulder again, her warm breath mixing with the cold air, and I leaned into her, savoring the small, steady comfort she gave me.
The wind howled outside, the cold seeping into the stable, into my bones, into my soul. Somewhere in the castle, I could hear Layla's laughter, high and shrill, like a bird's song, like a knife's edge.
Somewhere in the castle, my father was feasting, his plate full of roast swan and honey cakes, his glass full of wine, his mind full of everything but me. Somewhere in the castle, Lady Stephanie was smiling, her lips red, her eyes cold, her heart full of nothing but hate.
Let them laugh. Let them feast. Let them hate.
They had no idea who they were dealing with. They had no idea that I was not just a child, not just a shadow, not just a curse. They had no idea that I was a woman who'd died alone and been reborn to suffer, but who refused to break. They had no idea that I was a survivor.
I was Hannah Bennington, the unwanted daughter of Count Bennington. The girl who slept in the stables. The girl who ate stale bread. The girl who was nothing.
And I was just getting started.