Chapter 1The Whole Damn Family is Villainous

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!]

* * *

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.