Chapter 1

My younger sister stole my place and married the General, but one scar was all it took for him to bring her crashing down.

My younger sister pretended to be the one who had saved him and married that General.

I watched with my own eyes as she put on the wedding dress and walked into Northwarden Manor in glory, stepping all over the life that should have been mine.

The first time he saw me after the wedding, something in his eyes changed.

He stared at the scar on my wrist and said nothing for a long while.

"The hand that pulled me out of that pit back then had this very scar."

My younger sister's face changed on the spot. The moment she turned around, she bribed a servant to tamper with my tea.

She thought she was the only one plotting.

What she didn't know was that the Sovereign's spies had already seen everything.

The day the Royal Decree arrived, my younger sister knelt on the ground, shaking like a leaf, and the gates of Northwarden Manor opened and closed once more.

The one who went out was my younger sister. The one who came in was me.

The morning light in the kitchen was always thin and cold. I wore a faded old jacket, carrying a bundle of freshly split firewood in my arms.

The air carried the damp chill of earth, mixed with a faint trace of wood ash. Dawn was only just breaking, and the courtyard had not fully woken yet.

My fingertips rubbed against the rough firewood, thick calluses covering them. Those calluses were marks left behind year after year, just like my life.

My face looked worn with fatigue, and the shadows under my eyes were getting darker. I had already been working by the stove for quite a while, with sparks crackling in the fire.

The porridge in the pot steamed heavily, bubbling away. In the courtyard next door, the heater in Charlotte Sinclair's room had kept burning charcoal all night long.

That courtyard was always brighter and warmer than mine. In the Sinclair family, I, the eldest daughter, seemed destined to live in the shadows forever.

My birth mother died early, and I became invisible in the Sinclair family. My stepmother, Mrs. Sinclair, ran the household. She was sharp and cold.

Mr. Sinclair spent most of the year away managing the family cloth business, so everything at home was decided by Mrs. Sinclair. Anything good always went first to her own daughter, Charlotte.

I was nothing more than the Sinclair family's eldest daughter they could throw away whenever needed. When they needed someone to work or take the blame, that someone was always me.

Maggie slipped in quietly, carrying an empty bowl in her hands. She looked at me, her eyes full of heartache.

"Miss Sinclair, take a break. It's not even fully light out yet."

I shook my head and ladled out a bowl of hot porridge for her.

"Eat something. There's still work to do in the kitchen."

Maggie didn't take it. Her expression was a little strange, like she wanted to say something but couldn't.

"Miss Sinclair, I just went to the front courtyard and heard people say Northwarden Manor sent a matchmaker over."

My hand paused. The spoon knocked against the bowl with a crisp sound.

"Northwarden Manor?"

"Yeah. They said the General is looking to marry the person who saved his life back then, and the Royal Decree is about to come down."

Maggie's voice trembled a little as she looked into my eyes. Something in my heart was struck in that instant.

A boy's figure flashed through my mind, covered in blood but stubbornly hanging on. The boy I had once saved at the risk of my own life.

Had he really become the commander who now guarded the Northern Frontier? That blurry figure buried deep in my memory suddenly became clear.

Just after daybreak, Mrs. Sinclair sent someone to summon me.

"Miss Sinclair, Madam wants you in the main hall."

I took off my apron, wiped my hands, and followed the old servant woman toward the front courtyard.

In the main hall, Mrs. Sinclair wore a brand-new jacket. Her face carried that same familiar smile, gentle on the surface, distant underneath.

Charlotte sat beside her, posture straight, her eyes and brows unable to hide their smug delight. I stood below them with my hands lowered, waiting for their sentence.

Mrs. Sinclair gave a light cough, her voice lacking even a trace of warmth.

"Evelyn, your younger sister will take this marriage to Northwarden Manor."

Something slammed hard against my chest. But nothing showed on my face.

Seeing no reaction from me, Mrs. Sinclair's tone grew even calmer.

"Your younger sister is pretty. She'll bring honor to Northwarden Manor. As for you, you're rough-handed and clumsy. If you went there, you'd only embarrass us."

Every word was like a dull knife, sawing slowly through my heart. I wasn't rough-handed. I had just done too much work.

I didn't argue. I simply lowered my head quietly. My gaze fell on my left wrist.

There was an old scar there, about three inches long, winding across my skin like a mountain ridge. My eyes seemed to freeze in that moment.

A fury buried deep inside me turned to ice and froze solid. Mrs. Sinclair thought I had accepted it.

She kept talking, her tone carrying that fake kind of comfort.

"Don't worry. Once this is done, I'll find you a decent match with a local merchant."

What she meant was simple. I was supposed to accept my fate and help them finish this shameless switch.

Charlotte suddenly stood up. She walked over to me with a bright red wedding dress in her hands.

The embroidery on it was stunning, and just looking at it felt suffocating.

"Evelyn, help me test the fit, will you? Tailors never get these things quite right."

Her tone was casual, like she was ordering around some ordinary seamstress. I took the heavy dress from her.

The silk was soft, carrying that festive warmth unique to bridal clothes. My fingertips brushed the gold thread on the dress before I pushed my needle through the silk.

The image of that blood-soaked boy rose in my mind again. His hands, sticky with blood, had clutched my wrist so tightly.

Broken stone, dirt, and a sharp, tearing pain. That was how the scar had come to be.

I stitched one thread after another, feeling as if I too had become one of the red threads in that gown—pulled, controlled, and finally cut away.

That night, Maggie secretly helped apply medicine for me. Under the candlelight, the old scar on my wrist looked harsh and twisted.

Maggie's eyes were red, and her voice came out thick with tears.

"Miss Sinclair, aren't you really upset at all?"

She hugged me, and big tears fell onto my shoulder. I didn't cry.

My gaze drifted to the pitch-black night outside the window. My voice was steady, without a ripple.

"Just watch. What's the rush?"