Chapter 3

The fight drained from my mother' s face, replaced by a sullen, resentful glare. She knew I was not bluffing. The thought of a public dispute over my father' s estate was a nightmare for a woman so obsessed with appearances.

"Fine," she clipped out, her voice tight with fury.

I didn' t stop there. My victory had to be absolute.

"I want this courtyard cleared by the time I return from the vault," I said, my gaze sweeping over the room. "Every dress, every piece of jewelry, every book that was purchased for me or by my father. I want it all returned to my possession."

I looked directly at Emily, who was now weeping silently into a silk handkerchief. Her tears meant nothing to me anymore.

"You' ve lived in my shadow for long enough, Emily. It' s time you learned to stand on your own. Or perhaps, to fall."

Under my unblinking stare, Emily finally cracked. "I' ll... I' ll have my maids pack my things," she stammered, unable to meet my eyes. She scurried out of the room, her feigned grace completely gone.

My mother threw the heavy, ornate key to the vault onto a nearby table with a loud clatter. She glared at me one last time before storming out, following her precious niece.

I walked back to my old wing of the house, my steps echoing in the suddenly quiet courtyard. It felt strange to be back. The air smelled of sunlight and jasmine, just as I remembered. So much had been stolen from me, not just things, but years of my life, years of peace.

Inside the room, I ran my hands over the furniture, the smooth wood of the desk, the carved bedframe. Everything was just as I had left it, coated in a thin layer of dust. Emily had used the courtyard, but she had never dared to sleep in my actual bedroom, as if some part of her knew she was an imposter.

I went to a large, locked chest in the corner, a piece my father had made himself. I used a small key I wore on a chain around my neck, a key my mother had never known about. Inside were my real treasures. Not jewels or gold, but things my father had given me.

There was a worn copy of The Art of War, its pages filled with his handwritten notes. There was a set of architectural drafting tools, far superior to the ones my mother had given to Emily. And at the bottom, wrapped in oilcloth, was a small, perfectly balanced dagger and a detailed map of the northern frontier, where he had won his greatest victory.

I sat on the floor, the dagger cool in my hand, and the memories came flooding back.

I remembered sitting on his lap in his study as he taught me how to read maps, his deep voice explaining strategy and logistics. "A building and a battle are not so different, Sarah," he used to say. "Both require a strong foundation, a clear plan, and the courage to see it through."

He had taught me and David both. He' d taught us to ride, to shoot a bow, and to think for ourselves. Our family was happy then, filled with laughter and warmth. My mother, though always a bit vain, had been softer, kinder.

Everything changed after my father died on the battlefield. My mother' s grief twisted into a strange and bitter resentment. And then, her sister died, and Emily came to live with us.

At first, it was subtle. My mother would say, "Be kind to your cousin, Sarah. She has lost everything." But soon, kindness turned into sacrifice. Emily' s needs always came first. My accomplishments were downplayed, my needs ignored. David, young and impressionable, slowly started to mirror our mother' s attitude, seeing Emily as the delicate flower to be protected and me as the sturdy, unfeeling rock.

The arrival of Emily was the crack in our family' s foundation. My mother' s favoritism was the rot that followed, until the entire structure collapsed.

I carefully re-wrapped the dagger and the map, placing them back in the chest along with my father' s book. These were not just memories. They were weapons. They were my inheritance, the legacy of a great man, and I would use them to reclaim his honor and build my own.

Sleep eluded me once again that night. My mind was a chaotic whirlwind of past and future, of grief and vengeance. I drifted into a restless doze, my dreams a bizarre landscape of snowy courtyards and burning battlefields.

I was jolted awake not by a nightmare, but by a crash.

A loud, shattering sound came from the main room of my courtyard. It was followed by the sound of splintering wood and David' s ugly, jeering laughter.

I threw on a robe and burst out of my bedroom.

The sight that greeted me sent a wave of pure fury through my body.

David stood in the middle of the room, a triumphant sneer on his face. At his feet lay the shattered remains of a wooden model, a miniature pavilion I had designed and built with my father when I was a child. It was the last, most precious thing he had ever made with me.

And my brother had just smashed it to pieces.