The Reverie of a Mother

It came in the early hours, sealed in crimson wax and carried by a rider bearing the golden crest of House Veldenz.

The butler, Gerwin, looked uneasy as he handed it to Lady Amalia over breakfast. The children were still asleep, except for Liora, who stood beside Amalia pouring tea as she'd done every morning since autumn. The paper was heavy, crisp, its scent faintly floral, perfumed parchment from the imperial scribes.

Amalia read it twice. Her expression remained unreadable, though the muscles in her jaw tensed.

She set the letter down beside her untouched toast. "It's from the court. The Spring Gathering begins in six weeks."

Liora blinked. "The court?"

Amalia nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her brow. "The Emperor requests my presence… and yours."

Liora nearly dropped the teapot.

"My—mine?"

Amalia gave a tired smile, placing a hand over hers to steady it. "You are Edelhardt now. Where I go, you go."

Liora stared at the letter, unable to read the elegant calligraphy from where she stood, but feeling its weight settle like iron in her chest.

The castle stirred.

Word spread among the staff like wind through a wheat field: The Gathering. The season of silks and strategies. Of whispers behind fans and masks that smile with poison teeth. Liora had heard rumors of it—the grand festival where all the noble houses converged under the gilded banners of the Emperor. A place where alliances were forged, secrets traded, and enemies made with a smile.

She wasn't ready.

That afternoon, Amalia summoned Lady Katherina von Eisenwald—one of her oldest friends and a figure of quiet, commanding grace. Lady Katherina arrived with a dozen books, a box of fans, gloves in every shade of ivory, and a pair of sharply arched brows that could silence a room.

"You'll learn to bow with elegance, walk without fear, and speak only when it brings advantage," Katherina said in greeting. "Smile sparingly. Eyes forward. Do not let them see your thoughts."

She circled Liora like a seamstress fitting a mannequin, tugging at her posture, adjusting her tone, flicking her fingers lightly beneath Liora's chin.

"She's young," Katherina muttered to Amalia. "And still too kind."

"That's not a flaw," Amalia said flatly.

"In court, it is."

Liora bit her lip.

The lessons began immediately.

Mornings were for posture drills, balancing books on her head while reciting the names of the great houses in order of seniority. Afternoons were for fan signals, curtsies, and historical etiquette. Evenings for strategy: how to answer without answering, how to look both present and untouchable.

Liora tried. She truly did. But her feet ached, her back stiffened, and her smile felt carved into her face like a mask.

By the third evening, she sat slumped in the garden with her shoes off, clutching a practice fan like a weapon.

Micheal found her there.

"Lady Liora," he teased, bowing low. "Guardian of fans and frowns."

She didn't laugh.

He crouched beside her, his usual smirk fading. "Tough day?"

She nodded, resting her head against the cold stone bench. "I feel like I'm being reshaped into someone else. Someone I wouldn't even recognize."

Micheal was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up at the sky, where a sliver of moon was rising behind the clouds.

"You don't have to become one of them to survive them," he said. "Just be strong enough that they think you did."

She turned to him, surprised.

"You've been reading again," she said softly.

He shrugged. "You're not the only one Katherina scares."

They sat in silence for a while, the cold air nipping at their fingers.

Later that night, Liora opened her old journal and flipped back to a page she'd written years ago, the handwriting shaky and smudged:

"Knights protect the innocent, not the powerful."

It was something her father once said, before he died. She remembered how he'd lifted Linna into his arms after mending a neighbor's roof, and how he'd looked at Liora then—not like she was small, but like she mattered.

She whispered to the page, "Would a knight survive a ballroom?"

She didn't know the answer.

But in six weeks, she'd have to find out

The morning sun poured into the east wing's training hall, filtered through tall windows and the rustle of silk skirts. Liora stood straight-backed, chin lifted, balancing a porcelain teacup on a saucer that felt heavier than her nerves. Lady Katherina circled her with the precision of a hawk watching for the slightest tremble.

"Again," Katherina said, fanning herself lazily. "Grace is not a moment—it is a posture of life. Begin your greeting once more."

Liora inhaled and curtsied again, carefully angling her wrist as instructed.

Behind the tall curtains of the hall's gallery, several giggling shadows stirred.

On the other side of the fabric, Mathilde pressed her eye to a small gap. "She's doing the bow again!" she whispered.

"That's a curtsy," Leopold corrected smugly beside her. "Knights don't do that."

"I think she looks pretty," said Elias, his face smushed against the velvet.

Annalise, thumb in her mouth, stood quietly with her braid tied in one of Liora's old ribbons.

They'd all crept in after breakfast, having heard Liora was practicing "princess stuff." Leopold had claimed it was boring, but he'd still come.

"She looks like she's about to faint," Mathilde giggled.

"She's not," Leopold muttered. "She's brave."

Inside the hall, Liora's brow twitched. She could swear she heard someone sneeze—and then a muffled giggle.

Katherina's head snapped toward the window.

"Who is there?" she demanded.

Silence.

Then the curtain twitched.

Katherina sighed and raised a perfectly arched brow. "Children spying is a sport older than warfare."

At once, the curtain peeled back and four heads popped out like berries on a branch.

"We were just checking if she was okay," Mathilde blurted.

Liora turned, red-faced but laughing. "You're not helping."

Leopold stepped forward proudly. "I think it's impressive. All those rules. I couldn't remember half of what she said yesterday."

"I only remember the lemon curtsy," Elias said, blinking.

"Lemon curtsy?" Liora echoed, amused.

"You did one when you looked sour."

Even Lady Katherina cracked a rare smile.

"Perhaps," she said, "a short recess is in order. If only to give your siblings a chance to marvel at your... lemon curtsy."

The children spilled into the room like wind into open drapes. Mathilde began twirling with a fan, nearly knocking over a chair. Leopold attempted to mimic the curtsy and fell flat. Elias offered Liora a crumpled sweet he'd hidden in his pocket since breakfast.

"I was saving it for you," he said solemnly.

Liora took it with a grin. "My first tribute. I must be becoming noble after all."

They only stayed a few minutes before the nursemaid came to herd them off to lessons, but their visit left the room warmer somehow. The lace and rules felt less like a cage and more like a challenge.

As the door closed behind them, Katherina regarded Liora with new softness.

"You're lucky," she murmured.

Liora blinked. "Lucky?"

"To have people who'd peek behind the curtain just to make sure you're still you."