Snow fell gently that morning, blanketing the stone steps of Blutthal Fortress in silence. The frost glistened like ground glass, coating the bare branches of the rose garden and turning the world into a portrait painted in silver and sorrow.
Liesel stood still before the mirror, dressed in layered silk the color of candle ash and cream, her figure corseted and collared so tightly it felt more like armor than finery. Her hair had been woven into an elaborate braid down her back, threaded with pearls and polished jet beads.
Greta, the head maid, fussed over the lace at her shoulders with trembling fingers. "You look like a princess," she whispered. "No one would ever guess where you came from."
Liesel didn't respond. She wasn't sure she could. Her mouth tasted of copper and rosewater. Her palms were clammy against the brocade skirt.
Today was her Naming Day.
The day Liesel Maren, the barefoot girl who once lived in a rotted shed, would be declared dead in all but memory.
"Smile for me, little star," Elsa said as she entered, radiant in a gown of wine-red velvet. Her silver jewelry sparkled like ice caught in firelight. "You'll dazzle them all."
Liesel turned to her, managing a small nod. Elsa's eyes held no malice, only hope. Love, even. But love could be blind. It could lead lambs into gilded cages.
The great hall of Blutthal Fortress had never seen such color. Banners of House von Adalbrecht hung from the rafters: the black stag beneath the silver tree on crimson. Musicians played soft harp melodies, and nobles from Valcheim and beyond filled the gallery, whispering behind gloved hands and jeweled fans.
"She's the orphan Elsa brought in, isn't she?"
"They say she reads medical texts like a scholar."
"Too young to be presented. She must be no more than eleven."
"No titles. No lineage. And now they give her our name?"
Their voices were low, but Liesel could hear them all.
She was escorted by two handmaidens into the center of the hall, where a tall oak podium waited beside the estate's archivist. A thick book, the Codex of the House Lineage, layed open beneath a flickering candelabrum.
The air smelled of wax, perfume, and expectation.
Lady Elsa stepped forward, voice clear, regal.
"By my hand and in the name of House von Adalbrecht," she said, "I present the ward known as Liesel Maren, to be named henceforth as kin. By law, blood, and bond."
There was a pause.
Then she added, "From this day, she shall be known as Isolde von Adalbrecht."
The words struck like thunder, not loud, but final.
The hall burst into polite applause. A page turned the record. The archivist dipped his pen into black ink and signed the name Liesel Maren across a page marked for "erasure." A candle was brought to the desk, and the archivist, with ceremony, lit the edge of the parchment.
Liesel watched her name, her real name, curl into ash.
It wasn't a death.
It was a burial.
She stood unmoving as noblewomen pressed false smiles into their cheeks and murmured pleasantries:"How poised she is.""What a clever acquisition, Elsa.""Her eyes remind me of your late sister's."
Otto had not yet appeared.
Elsa brought her from guest to guest, like a painter unveiling a new canvas, smiling, proud, oblivious to the weight pressing into the girl's chest.
"She is a gift to this House," Elsa said more than once. "One day, she will make us proud."
Liesel heard none of it. Her ears rang with the crackle of parchment burning.
The music slowed near the end of the evening. The flames in the sconces had grown tall and golden. Snow tapped against the windows like distant hands.
Then he arrived.
Otto von Adalbrecht, dressed in deep crimson and black, entered with the gravity of a sovereign. His steps were slow, precise. Every conversation in the room seemed to shrink away from him.
He stopped before her and inclined his head, not too low. Not too warm.
"Lady Isolde," he said. Her new name sounded strange in his mouth. Like he was tasting it for the first time. "Congratulations."
She curtsied stiffly. "Thank you, my lord."
He extended a box made of black velvet and mother-of-pearl. Inside lay a necklace, a heavy collar of red garnets and dark iron links. It shimmered like blood frozen in steel.
"An heirloom," he said. "It belonged to a woman of strength. As it should again."
Elsa clapped her hands, delighted. "It suits her, doesn't it?"
Otto stepped behind Liesel...no, Isolde and fastened it around her throat.
The cold bit into her skin.
"Now you belong to us," Otto whispered near her ear. "Body and name."
She didn't flinch. Not outwardly. But something deep inside curled tighter.
The chain felt heavier than bone.
That night, long after the guests had gone and the fires had dimmed, Isolde stood alone in the bathing chamber, staring at her reflection.
The necklace still clung to her collar like a brand.
She whispered her old name to herself, quietly, once as if afraid the walls would hear.
Liesel.
The name dissolved in the air.
And she knew, for the first time, that she could never go back.