When I was little, my biggest fear was my mother wouldn't come home from work. Even as a child, around four or five, I understood that war was everywhere. If not a physical battle, the tension charged the air wherever you went. Even in our own home, dinner was eaten in stiff silence at the table. My father and mother disagreed on politics, Mother siding with the king and Father with the rebellion.

My brother was twelve, and I six, when our home became a battlefield. The soldiers gunned our door down, then my mother. Blood had streamed from a slice on her forehead, her chest just barely moving. Alex pulled me away and shoved me out a window. I broke my wrist, but he'd slapped his hand over my mouth so we wouldn't get caught.

I heard my father scream, then gunshots. Then, blessedly, silence. We thought the soldiers had left. I'd clawed at my brother's hand still on my face, tearing his skin with my nails, blood mixing with my tears. He hissed, jerking me.

"Stop it," he'd whispered, voice hoarse. It was dark, but I could tell he'd been crying too. "We have to leave. We have to find Mary." No one in our town would help us. Raids were common, and people talked. They wouldn't risk bringing the soldiers on themselves. At least, that's what Alex told me. Our aunt, Mary, lived several towns over. It would take days to reach her.

"Stay here and crouch down so no one will see you. I'm going inside to get some things," he'd said. We never should have split, even for a few seconds. I never should have let him go. That was my first mistake.

He had to go through the back door to get into the house. That was the second mistake. The third was believing silence meant absence.

My brother was killed that night. I heard him scream, heard the shots. I had run, and they shot at me, too.

So there should be no reason for him to be standing in front of me now, almost 14 years later, dressed in a uniform meant for the murderers who killed my family. There should be no reason for him to be pointing a gun at my head, finger ready to pull the trigger.

"Wait," I gasped out. The other soldiers had grabbed me by the arms, pushing me to my knees after tying my wrists behind my back. My face was bruised, my lip split, and my head throbbing. "Wait!" I said again, but louder. My brother didn't wait as he moved the gun to Wren, pulling the trigger. I watched as her head snapped back, the back of her head hitting the floor, blood immediately pooling under her, staring vacant.

I stopped breathing. Wren. My best friend since the beginning. She was dead. I would never talk to her again, or hear her laugh. She would never make fun of me or see how the war ended. She'd never-

The gun was back in my face. I wasn't sure what was happening. Everything moving in slow motion, I met his eyes.

"Aaron," I whispered, begging. He frowned, eyes hardening.

"What did you just say?"

I tried to swallow but it felt like someone was squeezing my throat.

"How do you know that name?" He asked. I couldn't speak, couldn't move. But I could still see Wren's blood, feel it seeping through my clothes and touching my skin. It was warmer than I thought it would be.

I cried out as Aaron gripped my hair, tilting my head back to fit the barrel of the gun under my chin. "Answer me."

"I'm your-" I gasped as he pulled harder. "I'm your sister." My confession was met with silence.

"Aaron, plea-"

"Shut up!" He released me, throwing my head forward and shoving me over. "I don't have a sister." My stomach dropped to beneath the floor.

"Aaron, it's me! I'm Kalea, it's me!"

"Even if you were telling the truth, my sister would never associate with rebels. She'd never betray the crown with such filthy affiliations."

"Aaron-"

"Stop calling me Aaron. That man is dead. And so are you."

He moved to point the gun at me again, and I let my head drop. My own brother, dressed in the same clothes as the ones who murdered our family, was going to kill me, too.