We were a family of villains, the kind that exists only to do evil, racking up a body count to make the heroes shine all the brighter. In the end, our pre-written fate was to be left for dead on the streets, objects of public scorn. My father was the corrupt Lord Treasurer, having siphoned off half the kingdom's treasury. The King had been eyeing his head for a long time. My mother, a ruthless woman from a lesser noble house, had clawed her way into her marriage over a few dead bodies. My brother, the High General, was the capital's most infamous rake, a bloodthirsty tyrant who held the city's garrison in his iron fist. And then there was me. Freshly reincarnated into this world, a useless girl with no skills to speak of, except for the voice screaming inside my head: [Dad! Mom! Damian! If we don’t get our act together, the heroes are going to crush us! I’m doomed!] 1 The moment I arrived in this world, I knew. I had been reborn into a family of archetypal villains, the dark mirror to the story's heroic protagonist. The first twenty years of my life were a whirlwind of silk and gold; the next twenty were slated to end in a variety of uniquely gruesome ways for each of us. I had just come of age when the royal decree arrived: a dual marriage proposal. My father, Lord Valerius, was a man of immense power, his hands on the economic pulse of the entire kingdom. The other bride-to-be was Lady Trista, daughter of the Lord Justiciar. A respectable family, they called them—a kinder way of saying they were broke. Though Trista’s station was modest, she was hailed as the most brilliant literary mind in the capital city of Aethelgard. Her reputation far outshone mine, which is how we both ended up in this mess. The King, in a show of feigned respect for my father, offered me the first choice: the Crown Prince or the Lord Marshal. My father leaned close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Choose whoever you like, my darling girl." But I fell silent, my mind racing. [The Prince and the Lord Marshal are both obsessed with Trista. If I marry the Prince, he’ll despise me but fear my father. Publicly, he'll be courteous. Privately, in the palace, I'll be treated worse than a servant. He'll take Trista as his favored mistress anyway, and when the time is right, he'll probably have me disposed of—walled up in some forgotten tower to make way for his true love.] [If I choose the Lord Marshal, I’ll be a lonely wife in a cold castle. He'll immediately request a post on the furthest border of the kingdom. A few years later, he'll return with a woman who looks suspiciously like Trista and demand I raise her son as my own. And all the while, he’ll be acting as Trista’s devoted, lovesick puppy, lavishing her with gifts bought with my family's money.] [Either choice is a death sentence. I’m utterly screwed.] My eyes widened and I shot my father a desperate look, trying to signal my panic. "Father... Dad..." A tremor ran through him, his eyes instantly bloodshot. He straightened up, his voice strained but firm. "Your Majesty, forgive my impertinence, but my daughter is... unruly. This union is simply not possible." The King’s pleasant facade cracked. "The Crown Prince and the Lord Marshal are the finest young men in this kingdom," he said, his tone turning to ice. "If neither is good enough for your daughter, Lord Valerius, who exactly did you have in mind for her?" Panic made my father reckless. "My daughter is… slow. I had already arranged a betrothal for her, you see." A cold, humorless laugh escaped the King’s lips. "Don't play games with me. You were given a choice and you refused it. Very well. I shall choose for you. She will marry my son, the Crown Prince. She will be his Princess." Defeated, my father could only prostrate himself in thanks before being dismissed. When it was Trista's turn, she and the Prince exchanged secretive, longing glances. She, too, chose the Prince, though she would only be his official mistress, a Lady of the Court. Her father, the Lord Justiciar, was ecstatic. "A blessing from the heavens! My daughter must serve the Prince well in his household." Only the Lord Marshal, Gideon, cast one last, mournful look at Trista before striding away, his shoulders slumped in defeat. 2 The news that I, Cassia Valerius, and Lady Trista were to be married to the Prince on the same day spread through Aethelgard like wildfire, fanning the flames of gossip. Not that any of the noble ladies ever wanted to associate with me; they all flocked around Trista like moths to a flame. She had the reputation, the grace. She could recite some mournful poem and earn a roomful of applause. As for me? My parents always said, "Why bother with lutes and watercolors? Those are skills for entertainers. Our daughter has no need for them." So, just like my brother, I was branded one of the capital's "gilded fools." On the way home, the whispers were impossible to ignore. "Look, there's Cassia Valerius, dripping with gold again. Does she intend to wear the entire treasury on her person? So vulgar." "What does she know of elegance? She's just a spoiled brat with a rich father. Look at her, trailing a half-dozen servants. You'd think she was a queen." "Even the Queen isn't that ostentatious. A shame, really. With that character, she might become a princess, but she'll never be a queen." "The Prince prefers women of substance. He would never fall for an empty-headed doll like her." Every time I stepped outside, it was the same story. I knew my reputation was in the gutter, but I refused to be shamed for my fashion. And what of their beloved Trista? The woman was about to marry the Crown Prince and she still wandered around in a plain white linen dress and a simple silver pin. It was pathetic, yet the capital’s elite praised it as the height of sophisticated minimalism. Leaving the palace, I had muttered loud enough for her to hear, "Dressed in white like that. Is she attending a wedding or a funeral?" Her retort, delivered in that sickeningly sweet tone of hers, came swiftly. "I love this white gown as I love a pure soul. It is a constant reminder to remain true to oneself, untainted by the gaudy trends of the world." This was going to be unbearable. The thought of sharing a roof with that master of passive-aggression made me lose my appetite. 3 That night, my parents and my brother, Damian, were all too worried to eat as well. Damian, ever the cavalier, slammed a fist on the table. "Seriously, Dad? You couldn't just say she was already spoken for? Do you have any idea the filth they’re spewing about her out there?" Mother’s face was a mask of frustration. "If it were anyone else, we could just have them… disappear." Before her marriage, she was infamous for eliminating several rivals within her own family to secure her position. Talk of murder never fazed her. Damian nodded eagerly. "A knife in the dark solves a lot of problems. Better dead than miserable under the Prince's roof. I'm with Mom on this one." He turned to me, his eyes filled with a rare spark of pity. "Poor Cassia. So young, and already being set up as the unloved wife." He’d picked up that particular turn of phrase from me. He was using it perfectly now. My father looked like he was about to explode. "Have you both lost your minds?" he roared. "We're talking about the Crown Prince and the Lord Marshal! Who, exactly, do you plan on assassinating? And he'd better not treat her like that. He wouldn't dare!" Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn't say it out loud, so I screamed it in my head. [Of course he’d dare! I’m not just the unloved wife, I’m the villainess! The evil counterpoint to his perfect Trista. I’m her stepping stone, the ultimate sacrificial pawn! No matter what I do, I’m destined to die!]. The mood at the table grew even heavier. I stared at the feast of roasted meats and exotic fruits before me, and for the first time in my life, it all tasted like ash. Damian slammed the dining room doors shut, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Then let's do it. Let's start a rebellion. Father becomes King. Then let’s see who dares to bully Cassia." My parents said nothing. Only I, the one who knew the script, sighed internally. [The wedding has to happen. Refusing is treason. The King is already looking for an excuse to destroy our family. This is just the beginning. Once I’m married, they’ll send Damian to the frontier, where he’ll be betrayed and take a dagger in the back. With me trapped and my brother dead, our family will be defenseless, lambs to the slaughter. We’re all going to die!]. My brother’s breath hitched. My mother’s eyes grew as cold and sharp as daggers. My father seemed to reach a decision, snapping a pair of ivory chopsticks in his hand. "Rebellion it is!" he declared, his voice a low growl. "Anyone who dares to harm my Cassia will not live to see another dawn." We spent the rest of the night plotting. The plan was simple: I would marry into the Prince’s household and act as their eyes and ears on the inside. We would strike before they even knew what was happening. We would embrace our roles. Understand the villain. Become the villain. Surpass the villain. We would solve this problem the way villains do. "Cassia," my father said, his eyes burning with intensity. "Once you are in that palace, do not play the part of the meek, forgiving wife. Be as wicked as you can be. We don't have much time, so make every moment count." "That's right," Damian chimed in. "If he gives you any trouble, just hit him. You might not be a warrior, but surely you can handle that pampered Prince, can't you?" A room full of master villains, all looking at me as if I were a fragile little flower. A fire lit within me. "I'll try," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "I think I can manage." Honestly, being a villain might be bad for one's public image, but damn, it felt good. 4 On the day of the wedding, two grand carriages proceeded to the Prince’s residence. My dowry was an extravagant procession of one hundred and twenty-eight chests, overflowing with silks, jewels, and gold. My mother fussed at the sidelines, trying to cram even more into them. "Oh, the Prince's palace is a den of vipers. My sweet girl has never known such hardship." By contrast, Trista’s dowry was pitiful. A few pieces of jewelry, barely enough to fill thirty-two small chests. As our carriages rolled through the city, merchants and commoners alike chattered. "Now that's a dowry fit for a princess. She must be impossibly rich." "Compared to that, the other one's dowry is just embarrassing. So shabby." ... We were helped from our carriages at the same time. Through the delicate silk of my fan, I saw Trista’s face twist with envy. Her expression softened only when we entered the palace and the Crown Prince, Alaric, immediately took her hand. "Don't worry," he murmured to her, loud enough for me to hear. "Now that you're here, I won't let anyone make you suffer." They looked like a pair of blissful newlyweds. I was just the third wheel, an awkward, overdressed obstacle. Still, during the ceremony, protocol dictated that I take precedence. The Prince had to show me respect, at least in public. In private, of course, it was another story. That night, Prince Alaric didn't even bother stopping by my chambers. He walked straight to the west wing, to the rooms prepared for his beloved Trista. My personal matron, Lyra, was wringing her hands. "Your Highness, this is an outrage! A breach of all decorum! If the Prince doesn't spend his wedding night with you, what will the servants think tomorrow? That woman in the west wing will be walking all over you!" Matron Lyra had always been blunt and fiery back at our estate, which was precisely why Mother had sent her with me. She was here to make sure I wasn't bullied. "She's not some common wench I can drag out by the hair, Matron. Am I supposed to go catch them in the act? You worry too much, that's why you're getting wrinkles. Let's all get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow. The Crown Prince spurning his bride on their wedding night? We have to make sure the entire city hears about it." I pulled off my heavy veil and wiped away my makeup. Even from my chambers in the east wing, I could hear the celebrations in the west wing. The Prince had even set off fireworks for Trista. He had finally married the woman of his dreams. I was just the collateral damage in their great love story. The sky outside was lit up, and servants scurried back and forth to the west wing with pitchers of hot water. One didn't need much imagination to guess what was happening. Meanwhile, I stretched out on the massive, empty bed and drifted off to sleep. What was the point of confronting him tonight? The Prince’s palace was crawling with his spies. Making a scene would just be another mark against the "evil villainess," making him feel even more protective of the "wronged" Trista. It would gain me nothing but his anger. Since he wouldn't give me face, I had no intention of giving him any either. This scandal needed to be public. The next morning, before the sun was up, I had my maids dress me and apply makeup that made my eyes look red-rimmed and swollen from a night of weeping. "Let's go, let's go," I chirped. "Time to go tattle." As the city awoke, I went straight to the Royal Palace. 5 I knelt outside the King's audience hall, begging for an audience. At this point in the story, the King was still wary of my family’s power. Before I even saw him, I started to weep—a gut-wrenching, soul-shattering cry that echoed through the marble halls. I had also ordered my entire dowry to be brought with me, a glittering caravan of treasure that paraded through the city for all the nobles and commoners to see. It was a display of wealth that would make even the King jealous. When he heard I had arrived with my dowry in tow, he received me at once, not even waiting to properly arrange his robes. The moment he asked what was wrong, I looked up at him, the picture of misery. "I would rather give this entire dowry away to the poor of this city than suffer such humiliation in the Prince’s household." Between my ragged sobs, I painted a picture of utter despair. The King’s head began to throb. "Summon the Prince at once!" he boomed. "To have the Princess come to me alone on her first day as a wife... This is disgraceful!" When Prince Alaric arrived, there were fresh red marks on his pale neck—a little trophy from Trista, no doubt meant to provoke me. In his haste, he hadn't bothered to cover them. The King saw them and his face turned purple with rage. "You are the Crown Prince! Look at the state of you! You humiliate your wife on your very first day? What do you think the court will say? What will the people say?" The King laid into him, and Alaric could only stammer, "It's not... I didn't..." But I just kept crying. No matter what the King said, I cried, letting my sobs fill every pause. Finally, when I had exhausted myself, the King’s tirade ceased. "Princess," he said, his voice softer. "Take your dowry and go home. Be a good wife to the Prince. You cannot speak of giving it all away. What would people think?" He eyed the chests of gold. "Besides... such wealth is better used to enrich the Prince's own household." He punished the Prince and shot a warning glance at Trista, who had followed him in, reminding her to remember her place. The matter was temporarily settled, and my dowry was ceremoniously escorted back to the Prince's residence. The moment we were out of the King’s sight, Alaric violently ripped his hand from mine, his earlier meekness vanishing. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Cassia," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "You did this deliberately to make Trista miserable. You embarrassed me in front of my father. Do you think that will make your life any easier?" He ranted for another minute before taking Trista's hand and storming off, leaving me standing alone in the palace courtyard. My eyes were still red. Well, a villain’s got to do what a villain’s got to do, right? If I just swallowed every insult and never caused any trouble, what kind of villain would I be? Of all the things the Prince had threatened me with, one phrase stuck in my mind: embarrassed me. As I left, the King was heading to his morning council. I saw the kingdom's nobles milling about, my father among them. I couldn't shout, but I focused all my energy on a single, silent scream in my mind. [Father! The Prince wants a scandal! Give him one!] I hoped my father, having already received a report from the servant I’d sent last night, would be on the same wavelength. By midday, it was the talk of the town. First, it was that the Prince hadn't even visited his new bride's chambers. Then, the story evolved: on his wedding night, the Prince had been cavorting not just with his new mistress, but with a whole host of courtesans, nearly sleeping through his morning summons to the King. The Prince was publicly humiliated, and Trista’s reputation took a hit right along with his.
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