She was my age, her dark hair tied back with a simple red ribbon. She had the lively, almond–shaped eyes of
a fawn, and every movement was filled with a playful, charming energy.
“You must be my sister from the capital. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Seraphina.”
Her words were sweet, but I already knew the venom in her heart.
Sure enough, as my parents and my brother, Gareth, hurried out of the carriage after her, I heard that secret
voice again.
“My sister has lived in the capital her whole life, never tasting the bitterness of the Marches. Look at her, sc
extravagantly dressed. She knows nothing of true suffering. A single one of her hairpins could probably cov
er a soldier’s wages for a year, couldn’t it?”
My parents and brother froze, their expressions hardening. They shot me accusing glances.
It was just like in my past life. I had been filled with joy, eagerly awaiting my family’s return, only to be met
with their instant, baseless resentment.
No matter what I did–or even if I did nothing at all–Seraphina’s “inner voice” would guide them to turn their hearts against me. I had done nothing, yet I became a spoiled, disrespectful degenerate in their eyes.
I died of a broken heart.
Seraphina, however, had used my life as a stepping stone, becoming a celebrated paragon of humility and strength.
But now, I no longer felt the sting of their coldness as I had in my past life.
