The Reverie of the Crimson Widow

The days after the Naming blurred together.

Gone were the sunlit afternoons of foraging herbs beneath the apricot tree, or curling beneath threadbare quilts, whispering her mother's lullabies to herself until sleep found her. In their place came strict schedules, whispered prayers, tightly laced bodices, and tutors whose mouths curled in disapproval whenever Isolde's voice carried the roughened cadence of the village she once called home.

She never said Liesel aloud again.

By decree, she was Isolde von Adalbrecht, duchess-to-be, ward of Lady Elsa, and asset of a powerful House.

And assets, she quickly learned, were polished like silver and sharpened like blades.

At dawn, she was roused from bed before the bell tower finished its second chime. Greta, her maid, brushed her hair until her scalp stung and helped her into layers of linen and velvet, the collars high and stiff, sleeves tight around her arms to encourage proper posture.

Breakfast was small and timed, a half slice of toast, a glass of watered wine, and an egg, if she was lucky.

"Too much makes one sluggish," Elsa had warned. "And sluggishness is not befitting of our name."

Her mornings were filled with fencing and posture exercises. She learned how to hold a blade, not as a warrior, but as a noblewoman might — firm but graceful. Her instructor, Sir Faldin, barked at her when her hands trembled.

"Again, Lady Isolde. Again, until it flows through you."

Her hands blistered. Her legs ached.

After fencing came etiquette and religious instruction. Under the harsh tutelage of Sister Odelia, she memorized the Twelve Precepts of the Sanctum, repeated the Litany of the Seven Thrones, and was made to kneel for hours on cold stone if she misspoke.

"Only through obedience," Sister Odelia would murmur, "does one ascend."

History and politics came last. She was drilled on the ruling dynasties of the Six Kingdoms, their banners, sigils, alliances, betrayals. Names flowed endlessly, Montclair, Salazar, Kurogane, Vestmar, Al-Farid, Eldric, the families that shaped the realm, now suddenly her peers.

Only when the candles burned low was she dismissed, sent back to her chamber in silence.

The evenings were the loneliest.

The heavy necklace Otto had given her rarely left her collar. Greta said it made her look older, more commanding. But when Isolde stared at herself in the looking glass, all she saw was a child playing pretend with someone else's skin.

When Elsa told her they would travel to the capital, Isolde had said nothing.

Not because she wasn't afraid.

But because she had learned fear changed nothing.

The journey took five days by carriage. Valcheim's frozen forests gave way to greener hills, then to villages, then to the stone bridges and bustling markets of the heart of the realm.

Ecléron rose like a vision from legend.

White walls, domed cathedrals, spires that stretched so high they touched the clouds. The streets were paved with marble in the noble quarter, with gilded lanterns swinging from every archway. Perfumed air and gold-accented fountains made the air feel unreal.

Blutthal Fortress, for all its power, was a candle beside a roaring sun.

Elsa had given her a warning that morning in the carriage. "At court, everyone wears a mask. Smile, nod, but never speak more than you must. They will weigh every word from your lips."

She obeyed.

The palace, the Sanctum of Crowns, was a cathedral to power.

Isolde walked two steps behind Elsa, eyes downcast but ears wide open. Her gown was an Ecléron-style creation of pale gray and violet, noble, but subtle. Her hands were gloved, her lips tinged rose.

Eyes followed her. Some curious. Some cold. Some amused.

They passed nobles in fine brocade: the sharp-eyed Lady Isabella Salazar of Azucaré whispered with priests. A stoic man in black and silver stood silently, a member of House Kurogane, she would later learn. Two daughters of House Vestmar argued in low voices over the Queen's hairstyle.

Isolde remembered every name. Every face.

They were not people. They were obstacles. Or tools. Or dangers.

Only one face did not look like a weapon.

He stood awkwardly beside a column in the upper chamber during a gathering in the Grand Atrium. Slim, with wavy dark hair, a deep blue coat, and gloves he fidgeted with, Étienne Montclair looked less like a noble than a schoolboy lost in someone else's coat.

He was introduced to her by a court page.

"Baron Étienne Montclair, second son of House Montclair."

"Lady Isolde von Adalbrecht," Elsa said with a hint of pride.

Étienne gave her a courteous bow, then hesitated.

"...You're younger than I expected," he said awkwardly.

Elsa's eyebrows lifted.

Isolde blinked. "So are you," she replied flatly.

There was a pause and then Étienne gave a crooked smile. "Fair enough."

He did not linger long, just a few polite words. He spoke of how strange the capital was, how the court never stopped buzzing, how the pastries at the corner bakery were secretly better than those at the palace.

He left with a gentle bow. And Isolde, for reasons she couldn't explain, felt like she had exhaled for the first time in days.

In the days that followed, Isolde attended ceremonies, banquets, and recitals. Each one demanded a different dress, a different voice, a different lie.

She danced with noble sons who smiled too wide.

She curtseyed before bishops who muttered blessings while staring at her chest.

She dined at long tables where conversations were swords.

Elsa, always radiant, beamed at her progress. Otto, when he appeared, offered quiet nods of approval. His gaze never lingered, but it was always near, like the echo of a closing door.

And through it all, Isolde began to understand.

This world was not real.

It was a stage. And she, a player in someone else's script.

Her name had changed. Her clothes had changed. But what had not changed was the silence in her bones, the quiet knowledge that she was being molded.

Crafted.

For what, she didn't know.

But no one trained a girl like this without purpose.

Back in her chambers, she sat before the mirror, brushing out her hair.

She stared at herself.

A girl in silk. No mud under her nails. No ashes in her sleeves.

She didn't look like the girl under the apricot tree.

She didn't even look like a girl.

She looked like something carved, deliberate, precise.

"Is this what you wanted?" she whispered aloud. "Mother?"

The room didn't answer.

The silence was louder than any applause.