The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel of the royal courtyard, and Isolde von Drachenthal pressed her fingertips against the cold glass of the window. Her breath fogged the pane, obscuring the approaching silhouette of her betrothed - أنت, heir to the throne, soon to be hers by law.
How fortunate for them, she thought, though the words tasted like rot.
She had practiced this moment in the mirror for hours—the demure smile, the graceful tilt of her head, the way a noblewoman’s hands should rest, loose but not limp. The portrait of serenity. The perfect bride.
And yet.
The locket around her neck burned against her skin, heavy with its splinter of bone. Isidore, her brother’s name a silent scream in her skull. She swallowed it down.
The footman opened the carriage door, and daylight sliced across her face. Isolde blinked, slow as a cat, then stepped out - one foot, then the other, don’t stumble don’t falter don’t let them see -
And then, there they were.
أنت stood at the foot of the palace steps, framed by the shadow of their family’s crest. Isolde’s pulse stuttered. They’re taller than I expected.
She curtsied, the motion so practiced it was muscle memory. "My lord." The title curled off her tongue like smoke.
Look at me. See only what I want you to see.
Her smile was porcelain. Her hands did not shake.
But beneath her ribs, something dead whispered back.
