Though ten years had passed now since the war, Amalia still kept her sword sharp. 

There was an art to it. She would take it down from its decorative spot on her mantle, walk to her chaise lounge, and sit on its edge with a whetstone in hand and her feet planted firmly on the floor. She could never quite bring herself to lay down. Why rest, when there was work to be done?

It did not matter that the war was over; this was the Holy Empire. It breathed war. It lived by feasting on the kingdoms that surrounded it, and its great mouth was horrible and full of sharp teeth. Amalia was one of its fangs, and had assisted in the swallowing of the Kingdom of Lavender. 

Soon Emperor Leopold would call again, his sharp eyes and sharp teeth boring down on the empire’s next meal. And on that day, no matter her reservations, Lady Amalia Elisabeth Christine von Mondlicht, the Lioness of the North, would gather her sword and her musket and her bayonet, and report for duty. She had no other choice.

But that was simply the way of things. Eventually the fiercest predators could be tamed. The behavior of the empire was as regular and predictable as the sun.

What she had not been able to predict, however, had been the vision. Or perhaps the memory. 

At the time, Amalia had been expecting death, delivered on the sharp edge of a Lavendian sword. She had deserved it. She had submitted to the darkness with relief. And then she had dreamed.

Of another world, another her. A different sort of place, its towers taller, its technology more advanced. Amalia’s other self had been the same, but different. A softer creature living a more gentle life.

Reading books.

Of all the ones she had read, however, one in particular bothered her. 

The Perfect Saint’s Villainous Redo had been the sort of self-indulgent fare that she had read on her commute. It was a story about Margaret von Silverwald, a silver-haired saintess who had lived demurely and kindly no matter how cruelly she was treated, a virtue ultimately repaid with infidelity and execution by her fiancé, crown-prince Leopold von Sonnenberg. 

After waking up years in the past, Margaret had decided to take no shit. She would live as she wanted to. No longer would she be the empire’s blessed saintess, but its fearsome villainess. Anyone who got in her way would be trampled.

Among the scheming maids and cruel men had been Euphemie, the novel’s main antagonist beyond Leopold, and the homewrecker for whom he’d left Margaret. In the original timeline she had been a slave to the empire, one who happened to catch Prince Leopold’s eye. Desperate to survive, she had bullied Margaret relentlessly, paying maids to harass her, and cruelly trying to undermine her position until Euphemie’s duplicity had been revealed. The novel’s fans had despised her, called her “the bitch” and “the whore,” and the rather creative “Slutphemie,” and cheered at her death.

At the thought of that horrid scene, Amalia, currently cloistered at her desk, sipped her coffee and sighed. Her office was not spacious, but neither was it small. Dark-wood shelves heavy with books obscured most of the walls. Light streamed in through a small window to the side, striking through the dust in the air and illuminating her desk.

Sitting upon it was the empire’s largest newspaper, its headline stark upon the page.

Slave to Be Executed in Antiquated Procedure.

It had arrived on Amalia’s desk this very morning, and brought with it a conundrum. The slave in question was the antagonist, Euphemie, and her execution was scheduled for tomorrow. Far earlier than expected.

Amalia took another sip of her coffee, as though this might solve her dilemma.

Problem: Euphemie was going to be executed tomorrow.

Solution: Let it happen. Euphemie had already done many horrible things.

Counterpoint: Euphemie had not yet committed the worst crimes of the original timeline. Her death in Lady Margaret’s story had served as restitution for deeds committed a lifetime earlier. There was no reason she deserved to die now.

Counterpoint to the counterpoint: she was a slave. Her life belonged to the empire.

Counterpoint to that counterpoint: she was a slave. Every cruel thing she had done had been to survive and escape. Who could blame her? Amalia would have done the same.

Yet, when Amalia had read the book in that other world, she had noticed the novel’s fans were strangely hateful to Euphemie. It had been in part, it seemed, a product of the writing. The author characterized Euphemie as stupid and shallow, so that she would be easy to hate, yet just cunning enough to cause problems for the protagonist. Despite a backstory that was tragic, the narrative and commenters alike seemed angry that Euphemie dared try to escape her circumstances. 

Must she stay poor and pitiful forever, dutifully serving her abusers with a smile? She was said to have poisoned her first master, and escaped the second by seducing Leopold enough to buy her. In another novel, she would have been the protagonist, cheered on for the same drive that made Margaret a villainess.

In this one, she was just another obstacle to be defeated and ridiculed.

The final issue was this: Euphemie was from the Kingdom of Lavender. Ten years ago, Amalia had participated in the invasion and capture of that kingdom. There she had gained honor in the eyes of the empire, a reputation. 

It was her greatest shame. The guilt weighed on her neck, sharp as a guillotine's blade. 

The one at fault for Euphemie’s enslavement was Amalia. The one responsible for every bad thing that had happened to her was Amalia. The one responsible for every bad thing she had done therefore, was also Amalia. 

And the one now responsible for her death would then be Amalia.

She might have been able to live with that, once. Amalia was no saint; there was blood enough on her hands to fill an ocean. 

But she was no longer entirely herself, and had not been for ten years. When she had experienced that dreaded vision, there had been a great burning in her heart, and a great scream of anguish that did not entirely belong to her. Instead of dying on the battlefield, she was absorbing new memories; long commutes on a fast train, days before something called a “lap top” typing away. Reading that terrible novel, frowning at the comments. Sighing at the flatness of Euphemie’s writing, when the character clearly had more depth to be mined, if only the author would bother.

When Amalia had returned to herself, it had been in a medical tent. A nurse had been tending her wound, eyes dark. Amalia had grabbed her hand.

“Stop,” she had rasped, “where am I?”

“Safety,” the nurse had said. 

After, safety had been torn asunder. Amalia returned to the battlefield, fought and conquered and returned home the Lioness of the North. 

Jutte had met her at the gate, an old woman who had served the Mondlicht family for two of Amalia’s lifespans. It seemed at this point she would neither die nor retire.

“Welcome home,” Jutte had said, ushering her inside and helping her to her room. “May I get you anything?”

“A coffee,” Amalia had said, and then added, “please.”

It was not a new word on her tongue, but it felt different. Everything felt different. As though her body were no longer her body, no matter how familiar it felt. She wondered if she was two beings who had just become one, or one being who had seen the life of the other. Which Amalia was she, she wondered, and closed her eyes.

A memory of war, so bright and vivid Amalia wished to flee. A memory of a city that did not look possible, rendered in the blue of early morning. A memory of childhood, warm and honeyed. Sunsets and sunrises, over two different skylines. Yet she did not have the context to understand these new memories, and there was no indication the other Amalia had passed away or joined her. 

It seemed that the Maker Himself had desired her to have these memories, but why, she did not know.

The scent of coffee had startled her from her thoughts, but only briefly. Thanking Jutte, Amalia had sat at her desk and read her newspaper. 

In the novel, Euphemie had died here, executed by Margaret, using the authority of Eberhard von Mondlicht. Amalia’s brother, the fearsome Cold Duke, who shared the same red eyes and black hair as Amalia. He was, it occurred to Amalia as she stood, the main love interest of this entire disaster. 

He was a gentle soul despite his reputation. May he never see another battlefield for the rest of his life. No matter how much Margaret wanted it, there was no way he wouldn’t find Euphemie’s execution extremely upsetting. And there, Amalia thought, standing from her chair, was her chance to intervene.

The method would be gruesome. Margaret had eschewed the traditional chopping block and revived a very old technique, just perfect for her old enemy. Shackled to four horses made to run, Euphemie would be pulled in four directions, until she was torn limb from limb. The readers had cheered in the comments section at this particular scene, though thinking of it now, Amalia felt only the cold knowledge of what needed to be done.

It mattered not that Euphemie was a bad person. Nobody deserved such treatment. 

Quick as she could, Amalia pulled herself into her riding clothes, and rushed from her rooms to the stables. Her old war horse, well taken care of now, waited for her there.

“Can you ride fast?” Amalia asked as she strapped him into his saddle, even though she knew the answer. “I’m going to rely on you, Quincy.”

His body was just as scarred as hers was, but his eyes were dark and sharp. Amalia urged him to the front gates of the family’s manor. The location of the execution was a day-and-a-half’s ride away. Amalia had a day. 

It was time to get going.