Darkness lingered thick, heavy, and endless. She floated in it, weightless, caught between one heartbeat and the next. There was no pain, no light, no sound only the slow memory of blood and betrayal echoing in her bones.
Then came the sound. A single, sharp gasp. Her own.
Air burned its way into her lungs, cold and raw, dragging her back into a body that didn't feel like hers. Her eyes shot open, and the world crashed into her all at once the brightness, the scent, the quiet hum of something alive and unfamiliar.
She was no longer on the battlefield. No smoke. No mud. No dying screams.
The ceiling above her was white and smooth, carved with patterns that looked too delicate to survive a war. The room was drenched in soft sunlight leaking through half-drawn curtains. The air smelled faintly of lavender and medicine.
Her hands small, slender, unscarred trembled as she lifted them into view. They weren't the hands of a warrior who'd gripped a sword since childhood. They were fragile, almost translucent in the morning light.
She sat up too quickly. The world spun, and pain tore through her skull.
A low groan escaped her before she could stop it.
"Miss, please, don't move too fast!"
The voice came from her right. A young woman perhaps a maid rushed forward with a basin of water and a folded towel. Her eyes widened when she saw Emily awake.
"You… you're conscious?"
Her relief looked genuine, but Emily could sense fear beneath it. Fear didn't come from nowhere.
"Where am I?" Emily's voice came out rough, the syllables strange on her tongue.
"In your room, miss," the maid whispered, as though the walls themselves were listening. "You've been unconscious for two days since the… accident."
Accident.
The word splintered something inside her. Images rushed forward not her own memories, but the other Emily's. A staircase. A shouting match. A shove. The flash of betrayal in another woman's eyes. Then the fall the world tipping sideways, skull cracking against marble.
Pain. Then blackness.
Emily's breath hitched. So this was her death. The other Emily's. And now she was here—wearing her face, her name, her life.
The maid hesitated, wringing the towel in her hands. "Madam said you shouldn't strain yourself. You're lucky to be alive."
Madam. The word carried venom, even from her lips.
"Madam?" Emily asked.
"Your stepmother," she said quickly. "Madam Patricia. She's been… worried."
Worried. Emily almost laughed. If there was one universal truth in every world, it was that the cruel never lost sleep over their victims.
"Leave the towel," Emily murmured. "I'll be fine."
The maid hesitated, glanced toward the door, and then nodded, bowing slightly before slipping out. The door closed with a quiet click, and the silence that followed was almost suffocating.
Emily pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the unfamiliar rhythm of this body's heartbeat. Too fast. Too soft. But alive.
The mirror across the room caught a sliver of her reflection hair dark as ink, skin pale from days of unconsciousness, lips dry but still the same shape she'd seen in another life. Her eyes met her own in that reflection the same stormy blue, though dulled with exhaustion.
It was her. But not her.
She stood slowly, her legs trembling beneath her like a newborn foal's. Each step felt like walking through water, heavy and foreign. The floor was polished wood, warm under her bare feet. She reached the mirror, her reflection growing clearer with each breath.
The same face that had once worn a crown now looked back at her in a nightgown stained with sweat. She touched the glass. It was cool against her fingertips.
She remembered the final moments of Norvale the smell of blood and burning banners, the weight of betrayal. The sword that pierced her back before she ever turned to see who held it.
And now, this.
Another world. Another body. Another chance.
The door opened again, sharp and sudden.
"Emily," a voice snapped.
Patricia Smith entered like a shadow slicing through sunlight beautiful, perfectly poised, with the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes. Emily's new stepmother.
"You're awake," she said, tone clipped. "Finally. Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused this family?"
Emily's lips parted, but Grace didn't wait for an answer.
"Your father's reputation suffered enough at that party, and now you nearly kill yourself falling down the stairs. Do you enjoy humiliating us?"
Emily blinked at her. Every word was an accusation, thrown like stones at a body already bruised.
"I don't remember," she said quietly.
Patricia scoffed. "Convenient."
Her eyes swept over Emily disdainful, calculating. "If you're going to fake amnesia, at least do it properly. Your father has already decided your punishment."
Punishment.
Emily raised her gaze to meet Grace's, steady this time. "For falling?"
Patricia's expression faltered just for a second before she masked it with a smirk. "For embarrassing us. Again."
She turned to leave but paused at the door. "Your sister will visit later. She's been so worried."
A chill crawled down Emily's spine. Sister.
The memories of this body flickered again, slow and jagged laughter, jealousy, whispered insults behind closed doors. And then the shove. The cruel delight in those eyes as she fell.
Stephanie.
So that was the name of the snake who'd smiled while she killed.
"I'll be ready," Emily said softly.
Patricia didn't notice the edge in her voice. She was already gone.
Emily sank onto the bed, the weight of everything pressing down at once her death, her rebirth, her new prison.
In Norvale, she'd been a princess, a warrior, a leader. Here, she was nothing more than a fragile girl under a cruel family's roof.
But weakness was a mask she could wear. She'd worn crowns heavier than this deception.
Outside the window, the city stretched in every direction glass towers gleaming beneath the morning sun. A world built on power and greed.
She could work with that.
A soft knock came at the door. "Sister?"
That voice..honeyed poison.
"Come in," Emily said, keeping her tone mild.
The door opened, revealing Stephanie. Her beauty was practiced, polished like her mother's and her eyes flickered briefly with surprise when she saw Emily sitting upright.
"You're awake," she said, stepping closer. "I was so worried. You scared all of us."
Liar.
Emily studied her face, searching for even a hint of guilt. There was none. Only the faint, smug relief of someone who thought she'd won.
"I suppose I'm harder to kill than you thought," Emily said.
Stephanie froze. "What?"
"Nothing." Emily smiled faintly. "Just glad to still be here."
Stephanie's eyes narrowed suspicion, not remorse. "Mother said your memory might be foggy. Maybe rest more. You look… different."
"I feel different," Emily said truthfully.
Stephanie lingered.
"What else?" Emily asked her.
"Benjamin came by," Stephanie said suddenly. "He was so worried. He wanted to see you, but Mother told him you needed rest."
Benjamin. The name surfaced in both sets of memories the boyfriend, the betrayal, the silent laughter behind her back.
"I don't want to see him," Emily said evenly.
Stephanie blinked, startled. "What? Why not?"
Emily met her gaze. "Because I've finally learned that not every kind face hides kindness."
For a fleeting moment, fear flickered in Stephanie's expression a tiny crack in her perfect mask. Then she forced a smile. "You must still be dizzy. Rest well, sister."
When the door shut behind her, Emily exhaled slowly. Her pulse was steady now, her mind sharp.
The maid slipped back in quietly, setting down a tray of soup. "Miss, should I"
"Don't call me 'miss,'" Emily said. "Just Emily."
The maid blinked. "Yes, Emily."
"What's your name?"
"Lydia."
Emily nodded. "Good. I'll remember that."
Lydia hesitated before leaving again, confusion written all over her face. She could sense something was different, though she couldn't name it.
When Emily was finally alone, she sat by the window, watching the light shift across the city. The reflection in the glass showed a stranger's body, but her eyes—those were still hers.
She remembered the oath she'd sworn before she died: Those who betrayed me will not die in peace.
Now, the promise burned anew.
A new name. A new world. A second chance.
They would never see her coming.
She leaned back against the pillow, letting exhaustion pull her under once more—not into death this time, but into strategy.
The world had taken everything from her once.
Now it was her turn.