At the family banquet, my mother ordered the guards to drag me to the center of the hall. “She’s a fraud,” she said calmly. “Strip her of any claim to this family and apologize to your sister.” My brothers stood beside her, watching as my adopted cousin wore my gown, took my seat, and accepted the congratulations meant for me. They accused me of stealing her identity, her engagement, even her place in this family. In my past life, I was cast out as a disgrace that night and died alone. This time, as their voices rose in accusation again, I smiled. They didn’t know—I remembered everything. When my brothers let their foster sister live my life, they thought I’d just accept it. Given another chance, I’d make sure she faced every consequence. When I was eight, the family seer declared my fate was “too fragile” for the capital. So, they sent me away to live in seclusion at Solitude Peak, a place rich with ancient energies. I was supposed to stay until I turned eighteen. But when I finally returned to the family estate, I discovered the truth: For ten years, my so-called loving brothers had let their adopted foster sister, Mirabelle, live in my place, pretending to be me. At the birthday gala of my fiancé, she had the gall to push it even further. Mirabelle snatched the token of our engagement—a gift from my uncle, the King himself—and held it up for the room to see. Pointing at me, she announced, her voice dripping with false sympathy: “Lord Theron, I’m so sorry for this scene. Our… ward here doesn’t know her place. She dared to steal the engagement token the King gifted to us. She even tried to use it to impersonate me and deceive you. Don’t worry, once we’re home, my brothers will see to it she learns proper manners.” If this had been my previous life, I would’ve swallowed the humiliation, desperate to win a shred of approval from my brothers and their darling “sister.” But not this time. Because this time… I had been reborn. I stepped forward, snatched the engagement token from her hand, and threw it to the marble floor with a sharp crack. Then, I slapped her across the face. The sound was so crisp the room fell dead silent. “Mirabelle,” I said, my voice cold and clear in the sudden quiet, “you dare take what’s mine? You must be tired of your comfortable little life.” Everyone froze, stunned by my actions. The silence was thick with shock as people exchanged uneasy glances. Mirabelle, however, was completely thrown. She stumbled back, landing hard on the floor. For a split second, raw, venomous anger flashed in her eyes, but it vanished instantly, replaced by her usual wounded-doe act. She clutched her reddening cheek as tears pooled in her eyes. “Elara,” she whimpered, her voice trembling perfectly, “I know you’ve… admired Lord Theron from afar, but you and he… you’re from different worlds. Please, don’t humiliate yourself like this.” “Different worlds?” I echoed, taking another step forward. My gaze pinned her as I looked down at her carefully arranged misery on the floor. A cold smirk touched my lips. “My mother was a princess of the royal bloodline. My father is Alistair Blackwood, the Duke of Ravenswood, a man whose victories on the battlefield are legendary. My uncle is the King of this realm. I am the trueborn heiress of House Blackwood. And Theron?” I scoffed. “He’s the son of a minor baron. You’re right, Mirabelle—we are worlds apart.” “Elara! How dare you twist the truth like that!” The voice belonged to my youngest brother, Leo, who rushed over, his face a mask of panic. Close behind was my third brother, Marcus, who immediately bent to help Mirabelle up. “Mirabelle, are you alright?” Leo asked, his voice oozing concern as he cupped her face. His brows were knitted with worry, his tone soft as if she were spun glass. Mirabelle gave a weak shake of her head, tears brimming beautifully. She looked up at him with an expression so pitiful it could melt stone. Marcus, meanwhile, turned to Lord Theron with a composed yet stern look. “Lord Theron,” he said, his voice steady and authoritative, “Elara was a charity case in the Blackwood household. My father, out of mercy, took her in as a foster daughter. Clearly, she’s forgotten her place. She’s delusional enough to believe she could pass for a noblewoman—let alone your future wife. Allow me to summon my elder brothers. We’ll handle this matter according to family law.” At his gesture, a servant hurried off to fetch my eldest brothers, Edmund and Julian. The crowd, already buzzing, erupted into louder whispers, their words sharp and cruel. “She’s an imposter! Claiming to be the Duke’s daughter? The nerve!” “I heard the late Duchess loved her true daughter so much she traveled the kingdom, healing and praying for her. Can you imagine her fury seeing this fraud?” “And the Duke himself—he’ll be livid when he hears his real daughter was mistreated. He’ll make that girl regret the day she was born.” “Not to mention the four Blackwood brothers. They dote on Lady Mirabelle. They won’t let this slide.” “If I were her, I’d be groveling at Mirabelle’s feet right now, begging forgiveness.” “Just a country bumpkin trying to play dress-up. A crow in peacock’s feathers. Disgusting.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh, amused by the ridiculous gossip. They weren’t entirely wrong, though. When my parents returned and learned the truth, neither Mirabelle nor my so-called brothers would escape the fallout. Theron stepped forward then, aligning himself with Mirabelle and my brothers, his expression one of smug self-righteousness. “Of course, I take your word, Marcus,” he said, his tone eager to please. “Mirabelle is the very picture of grace and kindness. Someone like her,” he jerked his chin dismissively at me, “could never be the real thing.” He turned to Mirabelle, his gaze softening as he checked her over. Satisfied she wasn’t seriously hurt, he turned his disdain back on me. “And you,” Theron said, contempt dripping from every word, “just two nights ago, you came to me with that token, spinning tales of being the true heiress. Did you honestly think I’d believe you? I’ve known Mirabelle for years—her gentle heart, her noble bearing. And you?” He scoffed, his lip curling. “You’ve been playing a role for so long you’ve forgotten you’re nothing but a stray dressed up for the ball.” Perfect. Everything was unfolding exactly as I’d planned. Theron, oh Theron, if you hadn’t taken the bait and insulted me so thoroughly, how else was I to shatter this pathetic engagement?
When the old Baron Wynthor died and Theron’s family fortunes dwindled under his uninspired leadership, the once-proud House Wynthor grew desperate. That’s when they latched onto the might of House Blackwood, hoping to salvage their crumbling status through a marital alliance. In my previous life, Theron petitioned my uncle, the King, relentlessly for our betrothal decree. His performance of devotion fooled my uncle into granting his consent, gifting us a pair of matching signet rings as a symbol. At the time, I was far away, training in isolation at Solitude Peak. When the rings arrived, I was shocked. But my uncle had a good eye for character, and Theron’s reputation as a handsome, competent young lord was widespread. Imagine my devastation when I returned home to find Theron wrapped around Mirabelle, my so-called foster sister, showering her with affection. For the first time, I ignored my brothers’ warnings and secretly revealed my true identity to Theron, hoping he’d set things right. But he flew into a rage. He ran straight to my brothers, who, terrified Mirabelle’s deception—and their own complicity—would be exposed before our parents returned, decided on a permanent solution. They beat me to death with cudgels beyond the city walls. My body was left unburied, torn apart by scavengers by morning. After my death, the King was furious. Theron, ever the actor, knelt before the throne with tears on his face, swearing he’d always loved me, that he’d been deceived by villains. Such a man… a liar and a coward. Not the husband my uncle had envisioned. Mirabelle, the fool, thought marrying into the Barony meant endless wealth and status, blind to the fact Theron’s house was already on the brink of collapse. What a joke. Now, in this life, the crowd stood firmly on Mirabelle’s side. She shot me a fleeting, triumphant glance before demurely lowering her gaze. Her voice, sweet and soft, carried just the right note of heartbreak: “Elara, I’ve always thought of you as a sister. How could you betray me like this? Pretending to be me just to marry Theron… Don’t you care how much this hurts?” She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, her face a masterpiece of betrayed innocence. Her act was so convincing a wave of sympathetic murmurs swept the room. “Sister?” I sneered, my voice icy. “You think you’ve earned that title?” I stepped forward, my gaze sharp as a honed blade. “From the day you were brought into this house as a foster daughter, you’ve coveted everything that belonged to me. And every time, I let you have it. My dresses, my jewels, my books—whatever you wanted, I gave it. Even when you mistreated the staff, I covered for you, afraid my brothers would send you away if they knew. “And how do you repay me, Mirabelle? By stealing my betrothed?” I laughed coldly, the sound cutting through the whispers. “Your greed has no bottom.” Tears welled in Mirabelle’s eyes. She bit her lip, trembling like a leaf in a storm. The sight made the spectators’ hearts soften further. “Mirabelle, you’re too kind for your own good,” Leo said soothingly, patting her shoulder. “That’s why vipers like her think they can take advantage.” Three pairs of furious eyes locked onto me, their combined anger a palpable force. Theron, emboldened by their support, stepped forward and declared, his voice ringing out bold and clear: “I, Theron of House Wynthor, would never stoop to marry a creature like her! I swear, my heart belongs only to Mirabelle, and I will never take another woman as my wife—not now, not ever!” His words drew gasps of admiration. “Such devotion!” “Lord Theron is a man of principle! A true love story!” “And that shameless girl dared to interfere? Ridiculous!” I let out a soft, mocking chuckle, my eyes fixed on Theron’s face. “Are you sure?” I asked, my tone light, almost teasing. “You’re choosing her? Over me?” Theron shot me a look of pure disgust, as if my presence soiled the air. “You? A low-born wretch like you dares to ask? Even the stable boys at Wynthor Manor are above you. Marry you? Don’t make me laugh.” Laughter erupted around us, the crowd pointing and jeering. “Good,” I said quietly, my smile widening. “Your choice is made. No regrets?” “None,” he spat, his voice firm. “Perfect.” At that moment, hurried footsteps echoed. My eldest two brothers, Edmund and Julian, arrived, completing the cast. The sight of them brought back the memory of my previous life, of the day they stood over me, faces cold as they condemned me to death. ‘You dare defy us and expose Mirabelle? You thought you could steal her fiancé? You’ve gone too far!’ ‘Nothing but trouble since we took her in. Cut out her tongue.’ ‘The tongue isn’t enough. She can write. Better to finish it. Let the dogs have her. We’ll tell Father and Mother she ran away.’ ‘Yes. With her gone, Mirabelle can truly be the only daughter of House Blackwood.’ The memory sent a chill down my spine, but I clenched my fists, forcing calm. Now, everyone was here. And it was time to end this charade for good.
“Edmund! Julian!” The moment Mirabelle saw them enter, her eyes welled up on command. She looked utterly pathetic, the perfect victim. Julian, my second brother, shot me a venomous glare before turning to Mirabelle, his voice softening into syrup. “Mirabelle, don’t be afraid. Tell me everything. I’ll make sure justice is served.” “It’s… it’s nothing, really,” she replied with a weak, forgiving smile, her voice trembling slightly. “Elara’s just… jealous. She wanted to pretend to be the Duke’s daughter, but I understand. She’s naive, her head filled with silly dreams.” “She dares impersonate you?” Julian’s voice turned hard as he glared my way. Edmund’s brow was furrowed, his tone glacial. “We have one sister. That’s Mirabelle. Elara is a servant in this household, nothing more.” The moment those words left his mouth, I saw the same murderous intent I remembered from my past life. With his declaration, the crowd’s disdain for me solidified. Then a girl stepped from the crowd—Chloe, daughter of a minor lordling and one of Mirabelle’s most devoted followers. She crossed her arms, radiating righteous outrage. “This wretch even laid hands on Lady Mirabelle!” Chloe exclaimed. “I saw it myself last night! Poor Mirabelle’s back is covered in awful bruises!” “Chloe, please…” Mirabelle bit her lip, teary eyes glistening as she looked up. “Mirabelle, did she really hurt you?” Julian’s face darkened as he stepped closer, voice tight with anger. “I’m sure Elara didn’t mean it,” Mirabelle murmured, magnanimous in her martyrdom. “Please, don’t blame her because of me.” Her words, sounding like mercy, confirmed the story for the crowd. To them, she was the blameless victim, I the vicious aggressor. Mirabelle’s frail figure, trembling just so, deepened the crowd’s sympathy. My brothers stared at me like wolves eyeing prey. “Elara!” they barked in unison, eyes blazing. I arched a brow, turning to Chloe first. “The daughter of a fourth-tier court functionary presumes to address me so? Perhaps you should fetch your father before speaking further.” As her face flushed, I turned my cold smile on Mirabelle. “You claim I struck you? That you bear injuries? Fine. Let them be examined.” The words made both their expressions shift. Chloe’s face contorted with rage. “You filthy gutter-rat! You’re not fit to clean my boots! Mirabelle’s word is proof enough! Who else could have done it?” “Who knows?” I shrugged. “Perhaps you did it yourselves.” Chloe spluttered. Mirabelle’s lips quivered, tears falling like scattered pearls. She threw herself against Julian, sobbing. “To examine the marks… I’d have to undress! She wants to shame me, to ruin my reputation! How could I bear it?” Her words were fuel to fire. Theron, who’d been watching, jumped to his feet. “Elara, how dare you!” he roared. “Mirabelle is my future wife! I won’t allow her to be humiliated!” “Touch her and you answer to us!” Leo snarled, anger boiling over. “So malicious, Elara,” Marcus spat. “We should’ve gotten rid of you long ago.” I didn’t bother with their threats. I waved to a servant. “Bring a privacy screen. Let’s settle this properly.” Smack! The sound of a sharp slap echoed. A sting bloomed on my cheek. Mirabelle’s lips twitched with suppressed satisfaction, though her eyes couldn’t hide her triumph. “Well done, Edmund!” Leo cheered, clapping while the others smirked. Edmund glared, eyes cold with anger. “You dared hurt Mirabelle? That was mercy. Kneel. Apologize. Maybe we’ll spare you.” Smack! Before he finished, I struck him across the face. He stared, eyes wide, stunned silent. “Elara, you—” Smack! I hit him again. “You—” Smack! Three slaps total. Edmund’s face flamed crimson, blood trickling from his lip. He looked like a bull ready to charge. “Feel better now?” I asked calmly, voice empty. The room fell silent. The crowd was stunned. Edmund, heir to the Dukedom of Ravenswood, had been slapped—three times—in public. “Elara! Kneel and apologize to him now!” Leo bellowed. I let out a cold laugh. “Him? A Duke? That’s a joke. You’ve all forgotten where you came from. Shall I remind you?” My voice dripped contempt as I continued, “Father and Mother have one trueborn child. Me. The four of you? Orphans, taken in from the gutter after your wastrel father died in a brothel. You’re lucky to bear the Blackwood name.” Their faces paled, hands trembling. “Enough talk!” Julian growled. He handed Mirabelle to Theron, drew a dagger from his belt. “If you won’t kneel, I’ll take your hands. See how stubborn you are then.” “No need for that,” Edmund said coldly. He grabbed the dagger and plunged it toward my chest. The crowd gasped. “Die!” he hissed, eyes red with rage. Theron shielded Mirabelle’s eyes. “Don’t look, my love. It’s too ugly.” But there was no spray of blood. Just a metallic clang. Edmund stared, terror dawning, at the unyielding blade. “W-what…?” “Such a shame,” I said, smirking as I pulled my cloak aside, revealing the glint of golden scales beneath my gown. “A gift from the King. An enchanted breastplate. Quite impenetrable.” The dagger clattered as he stumbled back. Then a deep, thunderous voice cut through the tension: “You wretched fools! How dare you raise a hand to my daughter!” My father, the Iron Duke Alistair Blackwood, stood in the doorway, just returned from the border wars. The massive, blood-streaked greatsword on his back and the cold, battle-hardened look in his eyes made the boldest nobles shrink back. “The Duke… his presence is terrifying.”
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