The Reverie of the Crimson Widow

Twelve.

Isolde had not expected twelve to feel any different than eleven, and in most ways, it did not. She still rose before dawn, still attended lessons with tutors imported from across the Six Kingdoms, still endured the touch of rough chalk against her skin as she copied noble genealogies until her knuckles ached. But there was something else now, a weight that clung to her, invisible yet undeniable.

She was no longer a girl from the wild corners of Valcheim. In court, they called her a marvel of refinement.

"The Lady Isolde is the flower of House von Adalbrecht," one noblewoman whispered to another during a summer gathering. "She moves like she was born for the throne."

"Elsa has worked wonders with the girl. She'll be a duchess to envy."

Isolde heard them. She always heard them.

She stood still beside Elsa, hands folded, lips closed, her spine straight. Just like she had been taught.

But she said nothing.

The announcement came on a clear afternoon, with the sun bathing Blutthal Fortress in golden warmth. A garden banquet was arranged, white linens draped over long tables, silver cutlery glinting under the open sky, musicians playing string melodies under the arch of flowering cherry trees.

Otto had not smiled once during the meal. He did not need to. He had already won.

When he stood, the crowd hushed. A goblet of wine in his hand, he raised it toward the head table.

"Let it be known," he said, his voice loud enough to carry but soft enough to seem intimate, "that the Lady Isolde von Adalbrecht shall become my wife, and one day, the Duchess of Düsterwald."

Gasps rippled through the noble guests. Then applause. Then toasts.

Elsa's eyes shimmered with tears. "Oh, Isolde," she whispered, gripping the girl's hand. "You're safe now. You'll be safe forever."

Safe.

Isolde sat motionless beside her, the goblet untouched in front of her.

She had not been asked.

That night, Elsa entered her room with a velvet-wrapped box. Her face glowed with joy, a softness Isolde had not seen since the days when she still called her by her first name.

"You'll wear this for the formal portrait," Elsa said, unveiling the contents.

A gown of deep crimson silk lay nestled in tissue, the fabric glimmering like blood in moonlight. The bodice was embroidered with black thread in the shape of curling vines, and tiny rubies dotted the sleeves like falling petals.

"You'll be the perfect duchess," Elsa said, smoothing the fabric lovingly. "They'll all see what I saw when I first found you. A girl born for more."

Isolde touched the fabric with trembling fingers.

It was beautiful.

It was a shroud.

Later that evening, when the candles had been snuffed and the fortress had quieted, Isolde sat alone at her vanity. Her reflection stared back at her, a girl with perfect posture, perfect manners, perfect poise.

A stranger.

She undid her hair slowly, letting the curls fall around her shoulders like a veil. The crimson gown hung from its stand behind her, draped like a waiting destiny.

Her eyes burned.

She curled into the window seat, the night pressing cold against the panes, and buried her face in her knees.

The tears came silently.

She had not cried sincerely since the day she left the apricot tree.

But now, she did.

Not for the village.

Not for her mother.

Not for what she had lost.

She cried for what she was about to become.

A duchess. A wife. A possession.

And no one had asked her if she wanted it.