Two Summers passed. My husband tired of the person that I was. I suppose he sensed my heart was not in any conversation or caress that came to pass between us, for he gave up. He called me, “Boring,” then left me to my own affairs.

Life was not the worst here. These people did not appreciate music. They valued strength over the arts. He had given me two choices—carrying his heir, or picking up a sword and joining the Guard, because nobody would suspect a woman, let alone a pretty one like me.

My first kill had been surprisingly easy. I continued to carry the thought, that I did not want to die, around like a charm for good luck. Every time I wanted to give up, I would push myself harder, because it was this, or nothing. I would carry no heirs. I would not be the whore of a Lord who did not even want children—I would not let another girl be sold off like me. And when one arrived at our village, I freed her, and she ran, and thanked me with tears in her eyes. But I was caught as soon as she was gone, out of sight. And they beat me. They beat me so bad, that I could barely see anything, anymore. “This is how you repay us?” they would say.

“We gave you freedom.”

“We gave you a life.”

But that was not true. I was never free. Not here.