The Reverie of a Mother

The snow that had threatened the hills for days finally dusted the rooftops of House Edelhardt that morning. Light and soft, like flour shaken from a sieve. It clung to the narrow ledges, to the sleeping gardens, to the edges of the stone windowpanes where frost curled like ivy.

Liora stood before the mirror in her room, smoothing the sleeves of her deep burgundy dress. She had outgrown her old gowns, and this one had been newly made, fine velvet, stitched with quiet embroidery near the collar. At her side lay a cloak, lined with soft fur and pinned by a silver brooch in the shape of a rose.

Her hands trembled as she fastened it.

There was no court, no trumpets. No banners or nobles gathered in rows.

But today was a day that would echo forever.

The ceremony was held in the Winter Hall, a smaller chamber off the chapel, where Amalia had once received private guests and loyalists. It was intimate, warmed by two great fireplaces and the weight of memory.

Only those closest to her were present.

Father Gerwin, who had baptized each of the children and who once pulled Liora out of a snowbank when she was five.

Nan Theda, who stood with tears in her eyes, clutching a lace handkerchief in gloved hands.

The three allies Amalia had trusted most: Lord Albrecht Eisenwald with his stony gaze and warm heart, Lady Cordula with her flowered shawl and cinnamon scent, and Lord Linhart, who had brought his latest batch of candied nuts and offered them nervously to the children before the vows began.

And, of course, the Edelhardt siblings.

Annalise had braided Liora's hair that morning. Her fingers worked slowly, reverently, as if weaving in a secret spell. Elias had refused to wear shoes until Micheal forced him into boots. Mathilde carried a rose she had plucked from the hothouse and refused to let go, even when it wilted a little in her grip.

Amalia sat in her high-backed chair beneath the silver tapestries, pale but regal, a fur draped across her knees. The firelight danced in her eyes. She looked at Liora as though seeing her for the very first time and the last.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Liora nodded, though her voice didn't come.

Father Gerwin read the formal rites from a bound leather book, the same one used when Amalia's children had been registered at birth.

"Do you come before this house, under its roof, to claim its name and be claimed in return?"

"I do," Liora said, barely above a whisper.

"Do you swear to carry its honor, its burden, and its memory, even in times when others may doubt your place?"

"I swear."

"Then by the will of the head of House Edelhardt, and in the presence of these witnesses, let it be recorded: From this day forth, you are Liora von Edelhardt, daughter of Amalia von Edelhardt, sister to Micheal, Annalise, Mathilde, and Elias. Let no decree, blade, or word undo what has now been bound."

Amalia reached for the small silver ring resting on a cushion. It was the signet of her line, once meant for a daughter she never got to raise. The seal was shaped like a single blossom within a shield. She slid it onto Liora's finger with great care, and whispered:

"I see you."

Liora felt a lump rise in her throat. She bowed her head—not out of formality, but to hide the tears that trembled there, unspilled.

Then the book was signed.

Once in Liora's name, and once in Amalia's.

The wax seal pressed beside their joined names hissed faintly as it cooled.

That evening, the household was quiet.

Servants had left small offerings, flowers by Liora's chamber door, sweets in the children's pockets, and warm cider left by the hearth. No one asked questions. Everyone knew what had changed.

But it wasn't until nightfall, when the stars blinked faintly through the snow-hazed sky, that the final vow was made.

"Come with us," Micheal had said after supper.

He didn't wait for an answer. He only took her cloak and guided her down the west hall, where the air grew cooler and the windows showed the orchard beyond, now silvered in frost.

The garden gate creaked open.

And beneath the old blossom tree, bare and skeletal now in the heart of winter, lanterns had been placed, small floating lights in glass jars, casting a soft glow like fireflies.

There, in the snow, stood the children.

Elias wore a crown made of twigs and had painted his cheeks with soot like a warlord. Mathilde had fastened two scarves around her shoulders and called herself the Empress of Cushions. Annalise wore the sash of the Marsh Kingdom, a faded green shawl from the attic that now served as royal garb.

Micheal simply stood behind them, arms crossed, expression unreadable, but there was a softness to his gaze that melted something in her chest.

They unfurled a parchment.

Roughly painted with scribbles, wax smudges, and uneven handwriting, it read:

Edelhardt Family DecreeSigned by royal authority of the Fort of Blankets, the Marsh Kingdom, the Knights of Candy Island, and the Empress of Cushions:

"We hereby declare and decree that Liora, formerly of No House, is from this night forward our sister, general, knight, storyteller, secret-keeper, and home.

She shall be protected under all treaties of pillow and rule of midnight snack.

She is not 'like' family.

She is family.

By this decree, sealed in our blood or crayon, whichever is easier, she is hereby ours. Forever."

Below the decree were four wax seals in mismatched colors:

A red one with Elias's thumbprint and an accidental bite mark.

A green one with Mathilde's heart-shaped doodle.

A blue one from Annalise, carefully shaped like a flower.

And a golden candle wax seal, Micheal's.

It was pressed without a crest. Just his initial. M.

Liora didn't speak.

She took the parchment with trembling fingers, held it against her chest, and closed her eyes.

Something shattered inside her.

Not in pain, but in release.

She hadn't cried since Linna.

Not when her parents died.

Not when she watched Linna's tiny hand grow still beneath the weight of snow.

Not even when Amalia had first called her daughter.

But now, with Elias tugging at her sleeve, with Annalise adjusting the clasp on her cloak, with Mathilde slipping her hand into hers, and with Micheal looking at her like she had always belonged—

The tears came.

And she let them.

Later, under the blossom tree where Linna had once imagined dancing, Liora sat with the decree in her lap, tracing the wax with her fingertips. The sky above was dark, but stars peeked through. The wind was biting, but she felt warm.

Micheal sat beside her, neither speaking nor touching her.

And then, after a long, shared silence, he said:

"Now they'll have to fight all of us to take you."

Liora laughed softly through the tears.

"No one's taking me."

She looked up at the branches above. Empty now. Waiting.

But somehow, even bare, they didn't feel lifeless.

They felt like they were holding something invisible.

Something beginning.

That night, she dreamt of Linna again.

But this time, she wasn't calling out from beneath snow.

She was weaving flowers into Liora's hair, smiling under sunlight that broke through winter.

And this time, she said nothing at all.

Because there was nothing left to be afraid of.