The wind howled through the high stone arches of Blutthal Fortress, its moan curling around the gargoyles that perched like old sentinels along the parapets. A storm was building in the valley beyond the keep, but within the fortress walls, all was candlelit calm. The halls had fallen quiet after supper, and the servants had withdrawn like shadows to their quarters. But the girl in the south wing could not sleep.
Isolde sat hunched at her desk, the thin paper illuminated only by the flickering flame of her taper candle. Her hand trembled slightly as she scrawled the name over and over:
Liesel Maren.
Liesel von Adalbrecht.
Isolde von Adalbrecht.
She stared at the last name for a long while.
Then, slowly, she crossed them all out.
The day had begun with ink-stained fingers and a sour stomach. Isolde had failed her recitation of noble lineage and earned a cold reprimand from her etiquette tutor, who lectured her on the difference between recalcitrance and rebellion.
"You are no longer a peasant child," the tutor hissed. "There is no room for defiance in your station."
Elsa intervened before the reprimand turned into punishment, sending the tutor away and kneeling beside Isolde in the parlor. Her hands were soft, her voice softer.
"One day, you'll rule over something greater than blood, little one," Elsa said, tucking a loose curl behind Isolde's ear. "Not because you were born into it, but because you chose to endure."
"Endure what?" Isolde asked, her voice hoarse.
Elsa smiled, though her eyes did not. "What others could not."
Those words stayed with her the entire day. Through hours of posture drills, silent meals, embroidery that bled her fingers, and another long lecture on courtly conduct.
She endured. Because Elsa believed she could.
It was well past midnight when Isolde crept into the garden. She had pulled a shawl over her nightdress and tiptoed past the silent guards, descending the back stair and slipping through the corridor door that led to the western orchard.
The sky was a bruised shade of violet. Above her, the red moon, rare and full, hung low over the battlements, casting an eerie crimson light across the sleeping garden. Dew clung to every branch and blade, glinting like bloodied pearls.
She wandered between apricot trees, their fruit still green and sour this time of year. Here, in this borrowed silence, she could almost feel like herself again. Almost.
Then she heard the footfall.
Slow, measured, unmistakably his.
Archduke Otto von Adalbrecht emerged from the shadows beside the hedgerow, dressed not in armor or velvet, but in a simple dark cloak lined in sable. His boots barely made a sound.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said quietly.
Isolde turned to face him but said nothing. Her jaw was set in that stubborn way that Elsa often tried to smooth out of her.
Otto stepped closer.
"There is a storm coming. The other nobles feel it in their bones. The Church whispers more each day. Even my allies question our bloodline's strength."
She flinched slightly, unsure why he spoke of such things to her.
"But you," he continued, "you are proof that we are not fading. You will carry this House farther than anyone expects."
Isolde frowned. "I don't understand."
"No. But you will." He studied her with that same cold fire in his eyes. "Say yes, when the time comes. I'll make sure you never feel small again."
Then he raised a hand and, for a moment, she thought he might touch her face. But he didn't. Instead, he turned away and vanished into the hedges like a ghost.
In her chamber, Isolde sat rigid for a long time.
Otto's words echoed through her like a foreign melody. They stirred something strange, fear, confusion, even the tiniest flicker of hope. But the part that unsettled her most wasn't the power he promised. It was the way he said it.
"Say yes, when the time comes."
What did he mean?
She walked to her desk, picked up her quill, and wrote the names again.
Liesel Maren.
Liesel von Adalbrecht.
Isolde von Adalbrecht.
Then she dipped the quill into ink one last time.
And crossed them all out.
The next morning, when Elsa came to rouse her, Isolde's bed was still made. Her candle had burned out on the desk. And the parchment was folded neatly beneath her pillow — blank.
Not a name to be found.