It takes my mother exactly three minutes to come banging on my door. I suppose she needed to see Chief Bertrand out politely so that more misfortune didn’t befall our family. Although I'm not sure how much worse it can get.

We are already on the lowest rung of society in the North.

Perhaps he can accuse my mother of theft or have her taken away for not training her child appropriately. Or worse, he can stop the frequent payments he’s been making to her in expectation of me becoming his sex slave.

Either way, my mother is furious as she storms up the stairs, her rapid footsteps echoing in the creaking steps.

Our home has thin walls and my room is tiny. I can probably stretch my arms and touch both sides of it. I keep it spare a result, with nothing but a mattress and a small box to keep my belongings. Sometimes, when it gets too stuffy and hot in the summer months, I climb onto the roof to enjoy the fresh air. But I despise the winter because nothing in here can keep the cold out. I freeze to my bones covered in threadbare clothes and fear for the moment the chill reaches my heart and stops it from beating.

I’m prone to catching at least two illnesses in the winter and each time I’m left to fend for myself until it’s done. My mother loathes sick people. Or maybe she just loathes me.

But she’s obligated by law to house me for the next few weeks until I come of age.

Knowing her though, she won't make it pleasant.

In retrospect, it was stupid of me to reject Chief Bertrand so harshly. It was certainly a little premature, but I chafe in this old-new skin of mine. It’s hard reconciling the last five years of my life with the present and knowing none of it has happened yet. It’s also hard combining the emotions of the future, the vast loss, and the endless series of heartbreak and suffering into this body that’s going through its own albeit milder loss.

And the pressure of it all makes me want to scream.

I sit on my bed with my hands in my hair, when the door gives way and my mother storms in.

"How dare you try to keep me out of a room in my own house," she demands. "And how dare you act like that downstairs? Have you lost your mind?"

I stare up at her. My mother is a beautiful woman. Her smooth skin gleams with vitality and has never seen a wrinkle in fifty years of age, despite the stress she's under. Even in anger, her brown eyes blaze prettily, and her auburn locks are full, and cascade around her face. Several people in town have said that she would have been better off forming a union with the highest bidder, rather than becoming a seamstress. She likely would have done well for herself as a rich man's beautiful mistress.

But my mother has her pride before she has anything else. She has no issue selling me off, but she would never sell herself.

Especially given the disdain Northerners have for foreigners.

In recent times, there has been a growing wave of foreigners seeking asylum in the North after Pangeans destroyed their homes. Though most were rejected, some found a home here, but it was with the heavy resentment of the Northern natives.

They only barely tolerated us when we were useful, which is why my mother had to become the skilled seamstress she was.

It would have been better if she had a union with one of them though. Then at least, she and I could claim some native Northern association. But my mother has bronze skin and mine is bronzer, so I assume my father is a foreigner too, probably a desert dweller, although I never met the man.

I consider all this in thoughtful silence that my mother quickly tires off.

My thoughts splinter as her hand hand shoots out to grasp my hair. Agony rips across my scalp as she drags me onto the floor closer to her.

"Mother!" The plea leaves my mouth even though I shouldn’t be surprised. This has happened multiple times before. But having her pull the strands until a few rip at the roots doesn't sting as much as her words.

"Listen to me. I don’t give care what is in that halfwit brain of yours or whether you think the Prince is going to marry you, stupid girl. He won’t. The entire town found out this morning that the Prince is betrothed and was seen walking through the streets with his new promised one. She may not be a great beauty but she is far more of his station than you are. And now everyone laughs at you and me, for ever believing his lies."

Once again, pain cracks my chest. I recognize it’s the old feelings I felt the first time this happened, the original emotions of this body that are not truly that of the soul. But it’s hard to differentiate and to prevent myself from letting the old feelings take over me, and become me.

"Mother." I reach up to grasp her wrist. "Let go. You’re hurting me."

"I should kill you, you fool," she says. "I should kill you and be done with it. That prince was never serious about you. You were just a thing to warm his bed. Don’t you see that?"

I don't bother telling my mother that Caster and I haven’t done anything like that yet. Instead, my wayward mouth shoots back, "So you would rather I warm that decrepit old man’s bed instead?"

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"You foul-mouthed girl!" She slaps me across the face with the other hand. Spittle flies out of her mouth as she rants, "After everything I’ve done for you! I tried to educate you and show you what life was like for someone who had nothing. It’s hard, especially for a Muzungu and you aren't clever enough to do what I do and make it on your own. You weren't even smart enough to get the basics at elementary, much less learn a trade. You have no prospects, but I, your mother, nurtured one for you, ungrateful wench. And now you’re trying to throw it away." Her breath is hot in my face as she gets closer. "Do you know what happens if that decrepit old man, as you put it, withdraws his offer? The second you turn eighteen, you won’t just have to worry about warming his bed. You’ll have to worry about warming every single man’s bed in the vicinity. And not all of them are as pleasant as Chief Bertrand."

"And you? What will you do once I'm gone?" I ask her, feeling vicious from the hurt. "Because I know you don't get enough business these days."

Her face turns red and I already know what's coming.

I ready myself for the worst beating of my life.

After it's done, and my mother storms out of the house, I gingerly pick my body up from the ground and crawl into bed. Every single part of me hurts.

My head pounds from where my hair was ripped out. My temple throbs from the beating, or perhaps from being flung through time.

I should not have provoked her but I would have gotten beaten anyway. At least, this way, I had the satisfaction this time of fighting back with my words.

It's pathetic but it's all I have for now.

But then as the anger subsides, the gloom returns.

I'm back here. Again.

What do I do now?

Leave the Village?

It would seem like the logical choice. I certainly have no love for Accacia and nothing is tying me here. But leaving isn't as easy as it sounds. The nearest town is days away and I likely won't make it on foot. I would need money and supplies to make a journey like that, both of which I do not have. And even if I did, I already know leaving isn't the answer.

After all, I left Accacia in my last two lives. Yet I still died. And here I am again back in the North, as I always am upon every reawakening.

It seems our faiths are tied together inextricably.

"Is that right?" I ask the voice in my head. "Is my survival tied to the North?"

There's no answer and I only look like a crazy person talking to myself.

But removing the option of leaving, only allows me with one other recourse. Staying.

Somehow, I just know that's the right choice even though it feels so so wrong.

I'm supposed to stay and help the North not get destroyed. What a joke.

The owner of that voice must have a sick sense of humor for picking me for this task, because not only do I lack any sort of allegiance to the North – in fact, I despise most people here – I also currently lack the strength and will power to defend anyone. I could barely defend myself from my mother's beating earlier.

Why me? I don't have magic, or power, or any great wisdom. I'm nobody. A nobody who simply refuses to stay dead.

How exhausting it is to live three lives and still not have any answers for this strange power of mine,

I'm tempted to just give up and let things play out as they did in the past, so I can die again, hopefully for a final time.

But then that would mean letting my friends die too.

I see all their faces in my mind pictured one after another. A girl, tall with golden hair. A boy, much younger than me, with a long face and ears that stick out from his head. Another girl, with freckles and a stubborn chin. More faces, flashing, an overwhelming sadness climbing with each image. They're still alive as of now in this timeline. I've been given a rare opportunity to save them.

Laughable that you think you can when you failed twice already. That's not The Voice speaking. It's simply my own self doubt.

And the self-doubt is head-splitting, echoing, threatening to drown me in a wave of despair. You're no hero, Adria Elvswick. You've never been. You're a nobody who desperately clings to people of importance to give meaning to your futile existence. Your desperate need to be loved is pathetic and is always your undoing. You've never been anything but a semi-useful pawn. You're not capable of saving anybody.

But, a tiny voice emerges, a light in the midst of foggy darkness, a voice that is small but cannot be ignored. You need to try.

What good would trying do? You already know who you are.

No, Hope speaks louder this time. You don't. You've never been the you that you are in this exact moment. The you that has all the knowledge and the experience you currently carry. Maybe that you can do something. That you can save your friends. There has to be a reason you were chosen. Right?

And despite the thinness of the voice, it gets clamors and creates a riot inside me. It rips at my natural inclination to stay down, to give up the fight before it begins. It repeats louder each time, until one thought remains amidst the anguish and despondency.

I have to try.

After the pain subsides, I drag myself up to sit and reach under my bed, pulling out a journal the prince gave me. Like my mother said, I'm not so good at writing, or reading, but I've managed to outfit some pages with words mostly about my love for the prince.

I rip those pages out, starting on a blank page.

I slowly write down the rough ideas and the symbols, everything I remember from my first life. Then I write down what I remember from my first reawakening. And then the second.

Is this the last?

In the North, it's often said that all odd things happen in threes. It's called the law of three, and many magical principles abide by this law too.

Is this magic? It's certainly not normal.

A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of it. Regardless, I don't want to die again. Especially that last death...

Anxiety chokes my throat. It's terrifying to think about it. A cruel laugh echoes in my ear.

Her laugh.

I shudder just remembering it. I can never go through that again.

No matter what I have to do to stop it from happening.

So I write. I plot as I write, identify holes in my knowledge, and how to fill them. I adjust different paths to see which would work best. My words likely won't make sense to anyone but me, due to my atrocious handwriting and spelling so I'm not concerned with anyone finding it. I simply continue, writing far into the night, although my mother never returns. My stomach tightens and I feel faint from hunger and pain, but even when I close my eyes, I don't rest. I think.

In order to save myself, and my friends, I'll need to get stronger, much stronger. Impossibly stronger. Push against limits I've never approached before. And the first step to that is to become an Elite Northern Soldier.

It's such an insurmountable task, that I nearly laugh. There are several criteria to be chosen for Elite Soldier training and I lack most of them. But I don't give up, clutching the thought close, peeling it apart and sorting it into steps.

And by morning time, I have a clear plan of what I need to do first.