She clutched at the blanket Aldrik had placed over her tattered clothing. The Emperor regarded her with thinly veiled contempt. Aldrik was completely closed off.

“Well, let us begin.” Emperor Solaris walked over to a table, opening a folio he was carrying, sitting before a handful of papers.

One at a time, Aldrik brought in majors who escorted women under their command. And one at a time Vhalla told them what it meant to be Vhalla Yarl. She told them of her childhood, her home in Cyven. She told them of the library, Mohned, her apprenticeship, Roan, and Sareem. She told them of the Night of Fire and Wind and of her trial. She laid herself bare to them with the Emperor and majors watching.

It felt like a Projection. She spoke and moved but her mind was more detached with everything that was said. Every word gave away pieces of herself and she became less and less Vhalla Yarl.

The last was a woman almost identical to her short stature. She appeared to be a mixture of Southern and Eastern with long dark blond hair. Vhalla felt she was the closest to her looks, despite her lighter hair and blue eyes. That woman thanked her before she was ushered out of the room. Vhalla was certain the woman had not listened to a thing Vhalla had said about her life if the woman was thanking Vhalla for the opportunity to be her.

Between Vhalla retelling her story to each doppelganger and the secrecy required to sneak each woman in and out of the room, it took all morning and into the afternoon to accomplish the task. By the time the last woman was led to her holding room Vhalla was exhausted.

Aldrik and the Emperor favored the same woman as Vhalla, which meant that woman would be the double who would ride in Aldrik’s company. Vhalla was given the woman’s bag as her new clothes. Aldrik also thrust a dagger and a bottle of black ink into her hands, telling her to do whatever she could to change her appearance.

Trembling and alone in the washroom, Vhalla carefully sponged away the dirt and blood from the night before. She watched carefully as she applied the ink to her hair, changing the brown strands to black. After letting it sit for a moment she rinsed and repeated the process three times. She inspected her progress in the mirror; her hair had indeed changed color.

Vhalla bit her lip, remembering how straight and tame her hair had been when Larel had used her heat upon it. She choked down a sob and raked her fingers through her hair with pockets of wind trapped underneath. It was clumsy and took a few minutes to be met with any success. But it dried straighter, more Western looking, taking out her normal wavy texture. It was longer this way, and Vhalla made the conscious decision not to cut short it again. She had done so once and become no one. This time she would grow into her new skin.

But Vhalla still grabbed for the dagger. Pulling her bangs in the front Vhalla made a straight horizontal cut just below her brow. For the second time in a year, Vhalla was unable to recognize the person staring back at her in the mirror. She leaned over the washbasin, muffling her mouth with her hand as she struggled to suppress tears for the woman whose memory she had decided to honor.

Keep it together. Vhalla Yarl’s friend died, Vhalla Yarl would mourn. She was not Vhalla Yarl. She looked back to the mirror, steeling her resolve. Looking at the hard eyes and foreign face she repeated to herself, she was not Vhalla Yarl. She cleaned up the bathroom quickly, changing into the other woman’s clothes—she corrected herself—her clothes.

She left the washroom and returned to where the Emperor and Aldrik waited. Both men looked her up and down. The Emperor leaned back in his chair.

“It will do,” he said, rubbing a finger against his lips.

“What is your name?” Aldrik asked her.

“Serien,” she replied without hesitation.

“Serien, what is your family name?” he questioned.

“Serien Leral,” she said and realized the moment he recognized her name.

Aldrik struggled to keep his composure. “Where are you from?” His jaw set firmly.

“A town called Qui. It’s a mining town that I hope you never have to go to,” she recited. Her story had been built for her.

“Where is Qui?” The Emperor leaned forward, folding his hands between his knees.

“It’s about halfway to Norin, if you take the old roads.”

“Your parents?” Aldrik asked.

“My father was a miner, and a drunk. My mother was a broken woman who left her home in the East because she thought it was love. They died when I was young, and I worked in the mines.” Despite her small changes to account for her eyes she wondered if the Emperor would see the source of inspiration for her story. She smiled coldly; of course he wouldn’t. Larel had meant nothing to him, she doubted he even remembered the girl his son saved from the silver mines of Qui.

“Why are you here?” The Emperor questioned her confident gaze.

“For a better life, to serve the Emperor,” she said easily.

“Well done, Miss Yarl.” The Emperor sat back in his chair.

She stared at him curiously. “Miss Leral,” she corrected.

The man simply chuckled.

“Your armor is here.” Aldrik stood to the side and allowed her to approach the table that was behind them. Basic plate and silver chainmail was displayed upon it. Vhalla was stunned a moment, one of the women would be wearing the armor Aldrik had made for her. No, she reminded herself, Aldrik had made that armor for Vhalla Yarl, and she was not Vhalla Yarl.

She scooped up the chainmail. This was Serien’s armor, simple and unadorned. It was the kind of armor that would slip into a mass of soldiers and be undistinguishable from the next. Aldrik silently assisted in showing her how to strap on the plate. It was heavier than her scale, and the weight made her favor her uninjured leg as she pulled on the gauntlets.