The day I met Caster was the worst day of my life.

Or at least that was what I thought until I died thrice. Now, I have a new perspective on what the worst day of one’s life truly looks like. But at the time – up until this point in this present timeline – it had been the worst day of my life.

It was the day I received my rejection scroll from the Intercontinental Performance Academy.

In the North, there are three possible paths a child must go through when they come of age, to prevent sinking into abject poverty, and risk freezing with the winter cold.

One is to apprentice with a tradesman. For important trades like swords-making or healing, you’re assured a comfortable existence because battles and disease are things you can always count on in the North. But most tradesmen apprentice people they know, family or friends of family. They rarely ever choose foreigners like me.

The second option for a lucrative career starts when you’re chosen for Elite Soldier Training to become either a guard or a warrior of the North. That’s a guaranteed life of luxury if you survive the deadly training. Every year, hundreds who are about to come of age vie for a spot. Some even migrate from the outer villages to join. Only a few make it through the entire grueling years-long training.

The North is known for having the strongest most powerful warriors in the vicinity. We're the only army to have successfully withstood the encroachment of the Pangean empire, even with the Pangean army being much larger than ours. Our soldiers are simply better, faster, stronger, forged in steel.

The Elite Soldiers are chosen based on numerous trials that could kill or seriously maim about half the class before the year is over. Only a few are even allowed to enter the academy and most people can already tell which of the youth will make the cut. It’s those who are biggest, strongest, smartest, fastest.

The best of us physically.

I am none of those.

And so, for me, who can neither learn a trade, nor become an Elite Soldier, the best way to make a living in the North is to join the performance academy. If you have a talent for singing, dancing, or art, this can be a very lucrative path. The North does not value performers, but the outer villages do. Pangeans especially love spectacle and love to watch our local Northern plays and sing our vulgar Northern songs.

And thus, at the tender age of twelve, my life's plan began. I would join the Intercontinental Performance Academy, and after graduating I would join a traveling performance troupe.

If I make it all the way to Pangea and manage to charm the elite with my vulgar Northern songs, I am guaranteed a softer life from what I’ve been enduring thus far. There is even a famed Northern dancer who lives like a queen in Pangea.

I didn't dream of getting to that level of prestige, but I hoped for some level of comfort at least. No more watery porridge with stones in it, drafty winters where the cold permeates to my bones, and no more panicked dreams about what happens when I eventually turn eighteen and am no longer the sanctioned burden of my mother. Some parents do house their children long after the obligation period, but my mother will not. I know that for a fact.

So I spent the next six years, forging and nurturing a talent in dance, so that I could join the performance academy. I trained most days and nights, perfecting my application. The performance academy judges come this far out only once every four years and there is a small fee to be considered. I saved for months to come up with the fee. Then I waited in a line that wrapped around the single performance center near the village hall.

After hours, it was finally my turn to be seen.

I sang my heart out, even though my mother had torn my hair that morning and nearly prevented me from going. I danced even though my side still stung from her beating. I performed although I was slightly lightheaded from hunger.

I did everything I could, hoping against hope that it would be enough.

Hope. Such a dangerous feeling.

The grass now rustles underneath my feet as the center of Acacia, the village popularly known as The North, comes into view. The swish sound is eventually overpowered by the click of my heels as the grass bleeds out onto the drab gray cobbled walkways leading to the marketplace. It’s evening but the market is still bustling with activity. But by dark, it will be entirely empty.

I spot a few people I know, but I'm adept at moving through the shadows avoiding them instantly. I have no friends in this village, no one but vicious tormentors who hate my darker skin and visually foreign looks.

Oh, how they laughed the day I was rejected from the performance academy.

A week after the academy judges left town, acceptance was made public on the board and so were rejections.

My name was prominent, first on the list of those rejected. The rejections are usually in order from the highest score to the lowest, which meant that I almost made it. I was the highest out of all the rejected and if someone were to get sick or die or drop out in the next few days, then I would be the first one allowed in.

But no one ever did. And I stayed in this wretched town with nothing for me but mockery and looming homelessness.

I pass the bulletin board now as the memory returns to me.

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"Look at her," Agnes laughed mercilessly as I tried to get away from the throng that had grown around the bulletin board. Families checking if their loved ones had made it. Some celebrating, others disappointed.

None quite as desperate as me.

"The Muzungu thought she would make it!"

"Her dancing is only good for the pubs." Agnes' sidekick, Edith, also cackled. "With a body like that, she would make a very talented whore."

I tried to ignore them. Ignoring was usually the best course of action.

But I could never hold my tongue in the worst possible moments. Without prompting, the words flew out of my mouth,

"You would know all about whoring, wouldn’t you, Edith?" I turned to face the shorter girl with copper hair and a crooked nose. "Chief Meinward said your mother was an expert at it."

It was a low and exceedingly cruel thing to say. Edith and her mother had been on the verge of homelessness and hunger, as was common in the North, especially during the famine months. Edith's mother had sacrificed her virtue in return for her daughter's comfort, a noble thing I thought. Or at least that was what the rumors said.

But the rumors must have been at least partially true with the way Edith's face heated to a degree that seemed nearly impossible.

"You foul witch!" She screamed and grabbed at me. She was much stronger than I was and much larger. I tried to dodge but she successfully grasped my hair, dragging me away from the prying eyes of the throngs and into a quiet alley.

Agnes accompanied her, grabbing my tunic as if to rip it off. It was already thin enough and I didn’t have money to pay for a seamstress to recover it if it got ripped up. My mother wouldn’t do it for free.

I needed to escape.

I pushed Edith as hard as I could, and heard a rip as I bolted out of their grasp. My auburn hair was long and slippery, so it slid out of her fingers easily. Agnes only managed to tear off the side of my dress.

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I bursted out of the alley and ran through the throng, followed by the pattering of feet.

But I didn’t stop.

Not until I ran into a chest. A big oafish chest with hands that made Edith's seem like bunny paws.

These hands were large and punishingly tight as they gripped my shoulders, accompanied by a sickeningly satisfied cadence as he said, "Well, what do we have here?"

"Let me go." I looked up into the familiar face of Brute.

At least that was what they called him. I didn’t know his real name, only that he was one of the largest boys in the village and also a shoo-in for the Elite Soldiers Academy.

And he had no qualms about using his strength to torture whoever he wanted to.

Apprehension immediately pumped through me.

"Or what are you going to do, Muzungu, if I don’t?" he said, drawing out the insulting word. His eyes ran down my torn tunic and a smile spread across his face. "Starting early? I thought you would wait till eighteen to get into the whoring business but it seems you're already propositioning me."

"It’s best to start early with these things." A slender boy beside him commented. I recognized him as Paisley, Chief Ludus's son. He wasn’t looking at my chest like the Brute was though. Instead, he was looking far off, appearing bored.

"I said let me go," I added as much resolve as I could muster, hoping it would display a confidence I didn’t feel. But Brute merely chuckled.

Then, he said, "Let me help you with the rest of it then."

He put his hand to the top of my tunic and I felt fear seize my throat. He was going to disrobe me in front of everyone. It was exactly the kind of thing the cruel bully would do. I'd heard of him doing far worse to other foreign children, and it was why I tried so hard to remain out of his vicinity until now.

I needed to do fight him but I was petrified in fear, my heart bouncing like a butterfly. I had to stop him but he was too strong. Overwhelmingly so. It was no use even fighting him. There was no way to dislodge his hand from my shoulders.

And from the sly smile on his face, he knew it.

"What's going on here?"

The voice stopped Brute right in the tracks. I turned my head to find the most handsome man I'd ever seen in my life walking up to us.

Prince Castellan was called the Golden Prince for a reason. Golden locks and warm amber eyes made him look like carried the sun and held the sunset. He was tall and leanly muscular not in an intimidating way like Brute. His body was more...artistic, more beautifully masculine. And he was quick with the sword. Every year, during the Gurad festival, the prince showed off his athleticism by cutting down the smaller monster released onto an arena. Every year I watched him move fluidly like a dancer, conquering one beast after another.

But I had to say, up close, his looks were far more devastating.

Suddenly, I was tongue-tied for a different reason.

"Nothing," Brute said. "Just dealing with vermin who ran into me."

The prince's amber eyes shifted from Brute to me. I watched as amusement entered his gaze and his lips kicked up on one side to reveal his teeth. He had perfect teeth. White, straight, and gleaming over pink lips that were just a little plump at the bottom

It took a while for me to tune back into the conversation but I heard him say, "I’ve never seen vermin this beautiful before."

My heart fluttered at the sound of his deep voice and I had to admit, I practically swooned.

That was only the beginning of what should have been our beautiful love story.

"Let her go," Prince Caster said, his smile vanishing as his gaze went back to Brute.

Brute obeyed without question.

The Prince made him promise never to touch me again. He even went one step further, insisting on walking me home that day. We went through the market with the eyes of everyone (including Edith and Agnes) on us.

It was a glorious feeling having the attention of the Prince even just for a day.

But that wasn’t the end.

He appeared near my home the next day after an argument with my mother. He found me in the field behind our hovel crying.

I was embarrassed because he always seemed to catch me at my worst. I was also surprised to see him. I didn't think he would seek me out after that first day, but then he said, "Ah, there you are. I've been searching for you."

As I blinked at him in shock, he pulled out a circular polished canister from his pocket. Ointment.

"Use that on your bruises," he says. "The one on your back looked like it hurt."

I blinked at him. Bruises? Did he notice I had bruises the last time we talked? No one else seemed to notice or care. I thought I was hiding it well too. How did he notice the pain from my mother's beating when I didn’t even hint at it?

"Thank you," I said hoarsely as I took the gift, avoiding his gaze.

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he went down on one knee in front of me, and propped my chin up. His eyes glowed with honesty when he said, "I'll take you away from her. I promise."

Up until then, I’d resolved to live with as little hope as possible, especially after the Performance Academy disappointment.

But I couldn't help it then. Hope and gratitude were once more beating in my chest and I grasped onto it with every bit of strength I could muster.

I never understood what drew Caster to me in the first place, but I was grateful for it. As for me, I tumbled head over heels in love with him, for his gentle nature and his easy smile. For the respect he afforded me when everyone else treated me like I was dirt under their feet.

The Prince was never ashamed to be seen with me walking through town. Pretty soon everyone associated us together and even those who frequently mocked me were silenced, glaring in obvious hostility that they could no longer express. Some even started being nicer to me, doing favors like giving me extra fruit or bread in the market. Perhaps they wanted to win my favor, in anticipation of when I became Queen.

In retrospect, that could have been part of the reason I fell in love with Caster so quickly, so totally, so irrevocably. The safety and security he offered, and the companionship above all, were like nothing I’d ever had before.

The fact that I went from the Muzungu who everyone mocked to the woman on the prince’s arm, the woman he would sometimes kiss and hold hands with in public, the one he spoke to gently.

No one had ever spoken to me gently before him. No one had ever put flowers in my hair and called me beautiful. I had been called desirable but that was about my body. I’d suffered leers when I walked late at night, but they only expressed crude, disgusting thoughts.

But to be called beautiful by a prince was an intoxicating thing. To be loved by him was consuming.

And when I lost it, I felt like life was no longer worth living. I would have done anything to get it back.

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In the present, as I pass by the market square, I touch my chest and wonder at the faint ache inside. The ache doesn't feel physical.

Could it possibly be heartbreak?

I guess I'm finally feeling the emotions of the body in this current timeline, after the shock of the time travel wore off. The heartbreak isn't quite as strong as the first time Caster told me about his impending marriage. Then, it felt like something was ripping apart inside me.

Now, I just feel the loss of a future that could have been.

Caster's face, his easy smile, flashes in my mind again, and the ache deepens.

I suppose some part of me still loves him. After all, I loved him in my past three lifetimes. It’s hard to let go of emotions like that no matter what he does in the future.

It’s also hard to ignore the fear that creeps up as I get closer to my mother’s house. As I approach the stone shoebox of a house, with a roof made of hay, I hear voices emanating from it. A male and a female.

My memory flashes to exactly what happened on this day and nerves knot in my stomach.

It was the day my mother tried to sell me off to the highest bidder.

It was termed as a union, not a marriage because he didn't deem people like me worthy of marriage. But a union would still put me completely under his control, to do with what he wanted. My mother would also receive a handsome allowance from him every month.

It's little more than slavery.

I pause at the door, delaying the inevitable by admiring the overgrown grass in the garden. It's been a long time since I've seen grass. My last days were spent in a desert.

And in the previous lifetimes, the North was quickly turned to scorched earth when the Pangeans finally arrived. When we could no longer drive them back, they – the Pangeans – razed the North to the ground, and left nothing alive, not even the grass. Everything was covered in dust and smoke and rubble and blood.

And if I don’t stop it, it will happen again.

Therefore, my mother’s guest is the least of my problems. But still, that old fear threatens to overwhelm me when I enter and spot the portly old man sitting on her threadbare couch. He smiles, revealing crooked yellowed teeth, and runs his hand through his thinning hair.

"Adria," he says. "My nearly ripe scarlet flower has returned."

Revulsion rolls through my body.

The man holds out his large hand probably beckoning me over. I remain at the doorway. "What do you want?"

The smile slips off his face a second before pain explodes on the side of my cheek. My mother, moving lightly as she normally does, came up beside me and slapped me.

Though expected, the slap still has tears springing to my eyes.

The pain stings long after her hand leaves my cheek. She's in rare form today.

"Don’t be rude to our guest." She bites out with a warning glare, before smiling at the man again. "I’m so sorry. It appears I have failed to discipline her as I should."

"I understand," he says, recovering his smile. "Sometimes flowers need to be plucked and trimmed to become perfect. I have no problem plucking the flowers."

His eyes gleam with pleasure.

Rumor had it that he plucked the last girl he unioned to death.

"There will be no union between us," I say.

My mother turns to me shocked. She knows I can be headstrong but typically I tremble before her. Even when I defied her, I never did it with such blatant conviction.

Well, living three lifetimes will do that to you.

"Have you gone mad, girl?" she asks.

"Perhaps," I respond. "But there will be no union between us. I would rather die."

And with that, I storm up to my room and shut the door, attempting uselessly to get the broken lock to stay in place.

I mean every word of it. She can do her worst and I still won't agree to marry that elder. I didn't agree then and I wouldn't agree now. Not even if she kills me.

After all, I've already died three times.