[Fictional Disclaimer – Elegant Version]
Though shaped in the likeness of ancient realms, this tale is entirely imagined. Its people and events are born of fantasy alone and hold no reflection of real history or persons.
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In the vast and echoing chamber, Lady Gisela of House Wilhelm stood before her father, the king—her small frame dwarfed by the towering pillars and the cold hush of stone. Her long curls of orange-copper hair cascaded down her back like molten gold, and her amber eyes—bright as warm honey—caught the torchlight as though they held a quiet flame of their own.
"I cannot wed him, Father. I shall not—"
Her voice trembled… and was silenced in an instant. The king's hand struck the air with abrupt force, and though she crumpled to the floor, what lingered more than the pain was the shock—as if the world itself had stopped.
"You dare defy my decree?" King Wilhelm thundered, his voice like an iron gate crashing shut. "Would you suffer the same fate as your mother?"
The chamber swallowed the echo of his words.
Gisela remained where she had fallen, shaken, breath shallow, the marble chilling every inch of her palms. A single lock of her vivid orange hair fell across her vision, trembling as she did.
"Remove her from my sight," the king commanded, voice flat as steel. The attendants obeyed at once, lifting Gisela gently beneath the arms.
"Shameless," he muttered, turning away. "Utterly shameless."
…
Beyond the door, away from her father's gaze, Gisela finally let the tears fall.
"I cannot marry him," she whispered, voice quivering. "He terrifies me… I cannot bear it. Please—help me. Let us escape this dreadful fate…"
She buried her face against Hilda's lap—Hilda, her nursemaid and steadfast guardian since childhood.
"No one defies King Wilhelm," Hilda murmured, stroking her hair with steady hands. "I know your fears are deep, child. To be bound at fifteen is no easy burden. But long has it been the duty of royal daughters: to forge alliances… to continue the line."
She paused—but Gisela jerked her head up, eyes blazing through the tears. In that moment, her amber irises seemed almost to ignite—alive with fierce resolve.
"I will not be a vessel," she cried. "I am more than a womb for heirs. I will live a life of my own choosing—I must!"
The corridor fell silent. Even the shadows seemed still.
Then Hilda laughed—not mocking, but full and bold, like distant bells calling the hour.
"Ah, Gisela… fiery spirit of the Old Rhine. You are heir to a house older than any crown. And mark this, child—"
Her gaze deepened with quiet certainty.
"Soon enough, you shall be Queen of England."
The words settled over them—like prophecy, like promise, like the turning of a page.
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