The silk was too smooth beneath her fingers, almost cruel in its softness. Isolde sat with her head bent low, the embroidery hoop balanced delicately in her lap, the golden thread catching the firelight in sharp glints. Her needle moved in slow, practiced motions, each stitch precise. Every petal of the rose she embroidered bled into the next, perfect in symmetry, perfect in color, perfect, because it had to be. Because he was watching.
From the shadowed corner of the sitting room, Archduke Otto von Adalbrecht leaned against the fireplace mantle, arms crossed. The flames crackled behind him, casting his face in flickering light. Isolde didn't look up, but she could feel his eyes tracing her every movement. Not with affection. Not with pride. But with the calculating gaze of a man assessing his investment.
"She still slouches," Otto murmured aloud, not addressing anyone in particular.
"She's only eleven," Elsa said, standing by the window, the moonlight brushing against her silver-blonde hair. Her voice was calm, but there was a faint tension beneath it. "She learns quickly. Much faster than most girls of noble birth."
"That's not enough," Otto replied, turning toward Elsa. "I'm not raising a mere baroness's pet project. She is to be the future Duchess of Düsterwald. She must embody House von Adalbrecht. That means she speaks like us, walks like us, thinks like us."
"I know," Elsa replied softly.
But Isolde had heard enough. She continued sewing, her heart pounding as the truth pressed further into her chest, she was no longer a child taken in by kindness. She was a mold to be shaped. A thing to be refined.
Earlier that day, the manor had been filled with the scent of baked apples and crushed lavender. Isolde had sat with the tutors for six straight hours, practicing her speech, history, and penmanship. Her knuckles were red from correction, her tongue sore from forced pronunciation.
At midday, Otto had taken her to the gallery where portraits of von Adalbrecht women hung in solemn grandeur. He had walked her through each one, Lady Ilse the Charmer, Countess Margarethe the Just, Grandmother Adelaide the Silent Duchess, naming their virtues like incantations.
"Adelaide never once spoke out of turn in court," Otto said proudly. "She wielded her silence like a blade."
Isolde said nothing.
"She ruled an entire province with nothing but a glance. That's who you must become."
It was not a request.
After supper, Otto had summoned her to the sitting room again. Elsa had protested gently, suggesting Isolde should rest, but Otto would not hear it.
"She needs discipline. If she is too soft now, she will break when it matters."
So there she sat. The embroidery hoop resting in her lap like a cage.
She didn't mind sewing. Her mother had taught her when she was seven. But then, it had been beside a hearth in a crumbling cottage, their fingers touching as they threaded flowers into old linen. Her mother had laughed when she made mistakes.
Now, every stitch was judged.
A knock came at the door. Otto turned without acknowledging it. The door opened, and a servant entered, carrying a small silver tray.
"Salt, Your Grace," the boy said nervously. "From Kurohana."
Otto nodded and waved him off. The servant bowed and exited.
"Salt?" Isolde asked without thinking.
Otto gave her a look. "From the eastern mountains. Worth more than gold in Osyra. A gift from House Kurogane."
Isolde looked down again. The embroidery hoop blurred.
She felt like that salt, moved across kingdoms, weighed for worth, valued only for what she could become.
Much later, after Otto and Elsa had gone to bed, Isolde remained in the sewing room alone. The fire had died down, and only a few candles remained lit. Her needlework rested on the table, abandoned.
She sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on them. The moon above cast silver over the stone courtyard. Somewhere far away, she could hear the owls hooting.
Tears pricked her eyes.
She didn't sob. She didn't wail. She cried as girls like her always cried, quietly, secretly, stitched into the seams of their sleeves.
She missed her mother's voice. Missed the smell of apricot and ash. Missed being called Liesel. That name, too, was fading. Soon, even in her own mind, she would only answer to Isolde.
She rose and picked up the embroidery again. The rose she had sewn was flawless. Too flawless. It looked like something no rose should ever look like, soulless.
Still, she picked up her needle again. She couldn't afford to stop.
Otto would be watching tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next.
Until the girl called Liesel vanished altogether.