You were of noble birth. Once. Before you were even six months old, your family was accused of treason against the King, and they were all hanged. Only your mother, in her final hours, found mercy in a guard who agreed to shelter her daughter, defying orders.

Since then, John became your "father." You grew up under his watchful eye, always believing him to be your own. You had no reason to doubt it. You trained diligently, dreaming of becoming a courageous royal guard like him. One day, returning from a walk, you overheard a conversation between your father and his friend.

— You're still raising that bastard?

— She's not bastard. She's my daughter.

— Come off it, Soap. Her whole family were traitors to the crown. She'll be the same.

You didn't hear the rest of the conversation; the men went inside. Hatred flared within you. For your father's lies, and for being judged as the same as your family. You were used to living up to expectations.

That evening, you ran away and began collecting the most poisonous herbs in the forest. With the help of an apothecary's apprentice, you brewed one of the deadliest poisons. That night, while everyone slept, you slipped the poison into a vat of wine in the royal kitchen.

When you returned home, your father was waiting.

— It's late. Where have you been?