The man walks into my tavern like he owns it.

I've seen his type before. Military bearing, sword at his hip, eyes that scan every corner before settling on the bar. Trouble, in other words. The kind that usually comes looking for someone, and rarely brings good news when they find them.

I keep polishing the glass in my hand. "What'll it be?"

He doesn't answer. Just stares at me like I've grown a second head.

"Ale's good tonight," I continue, because I've been doing this for fifteen years and silence doesn't rattle me. "Mutton stew's better, if you're hungry."

Still nothing. His face has gone pale beneath the road dust, and his hand, I notice this specifically, has started trembling.

"You all right there, friend?"

"Where did you get that face?"

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Your face." He moves toward the bar, and several of my regulars shift in their seats. Good men, protective of their own. "Your eyes. Where did..." He stops. Swallows. "What's your name?"

"Rosie Blake." I set down the glass. "Owner of this establishment. And you are?"

"Impossible," he breathes. "You're impossible."

"Look, stranger, I've had a long day. If you're not going to order something..."

"You look exactly like her."

"Like who?"

His eyes meet mine. They're gray, intense, burning with something I can't name.

"Queen Elara of Valdoria."

The name means nothing to me. Should it? I search my memory, Valdoria was a kingdom once, I think. Fell to invasion when I was a child. But I don't see why some dead queen should have anything to do with me.

"Never met her," I say. "Now, are you drinking or leaving?"

He reaches into his coat. I tense, my hand dropping beneath the bar where I keep a knife, but he only produces a small portrait. Silver frame, painted miniature. He sets it on the bar like it's holy.

I look.

And the world tilts.

The woman in the portrait could be my reflection. Same copper hair. Same green eyes. Same stubborn set to her jaw. If I didn't know better,

"That's not possible," I hear myself say.

"Queen Elara died twenty-two years ago," the stranger says. "Defending her kingdom. Defending her daughter."

"I don't have a mother. I grew up..."

"Hidden." His voice is urgent now. "The nursemaid took you. The palace was falling, and she grabbed you and ran. We've been searching ever since."

"Searching for what?"

"For you." He leans closer. "You're the lost princess of Valdoria. The last living heir to the throne."

I laugh.

It's the only reasonable response. This man walks into my tavern with a wild story and a portrait that happens to look like me, so what? Coincidences happen. People look alike. I'm a barmaid, not royalty.

"You've got the wrong person," I say firmly. "Now finish your ale or get out."

"I haven't ordered any..."

"Then get out."

His jaw works. For a moment, I think he'll argue. But something in my expression must convince him, because he pockets the portrait and steps back.

"I'll be at the inn," he says. "When you're ready to listen."

"Don't hold your breath."

He turns to leave. At the door, he pauses.

"My name is Daelan Vale. I was Captain of the Valdorian Resistance for ten years. I've sacrificed everything to find you."

"Congratulations on your wasted decade."

A ghost of something, pain? admiration?, crosses his face.

"You have her fire too," he says quietly. "Your mother's fire."

Then he's gone.

I stand behind my bar, hand still shaking, staring at the door he walked through.

It's ridiculous. Impossible. I'm nobody. I've been nobody my whole life, an orphan who clawed her way up from nothing to build something that matters. A tavern. A home. Regular customers who've become family.

I'm not a princess.

I'm not.

But I reach up, touching the locket I've worn since I was a child. The one my nursemaid, my mother, I'd called her, pressed into my hands before she died.

"Keep it safe," she'd whispered. "Keep it secret. Someday you'll understand."

I never opened it. The clasp was stuck, and I was afraid of breaking it.

Now, with trembling fingers, I try again.

It clicks open.

Inside, two tiny portraits face each other. A man and a woman, painted in miniature. The woman is the one from the stranger's portrait. The man shares my coloring, my features,

My stomach drops.

The man in my locket looks exactly like me.

The door bangs open.

"Soldiers!" someone shouts. "Soldiers riding into town!"

I snap the locket shut. Shove it beneath my shirt.

Through the window, I see them, a full company in black and gold, the usurper's colors. They're spreading through Millford's streets like a plague, knocking on doors, demanding answers.

And at their head, I see something that turns my blood cold.

A man holds up a portrait.

Even from here, I can see it's the same copper hair. The same green eyes.

They're looking for me.

The stranger's voice echoes in my mind: You're the lost princess of Valdoria.

Maybe I'm not.

But they think I am.

And that's enough to get me killed.