Thirteen.
She was thirteen when the veil fell over her face.
It was a veil of rubies, so heavy that it bowed her neck beneath its weight. Each gem had been set in place by a court artisan, chosen for the clarity of its blood-red hue, woven into a lattice of black silk that shimmered like shadow in candlelight.
The ceremony was held in the private chapel of Blutthal Fortress. No crowded halls, no applause. Just the scent of incense curling in the air and the murmured rites of the Sanctum echoing against ancient stone.
A priest with hollow cheeks and a voice like dust recited sacred verses in Old Eclérian. He had not looked at her once.
"By the flame of duty, by the will of the Sanctum, by the order of the Realm," the priest intoned, "we consecrate this union."
Otto stood beside her, cloaked in ceremonial black trimmed with crimson embroidery. His hand rested lightly over hers, the pressure firm enough to remind her not to falter.
She did not look at him. She looked at the floor.
Her thoughts were far away, buried beneath apricot trees and wooden shelves stacked with medical tomes. In the hush of the chapel, she thought of her mother's voice. She wondered if the Sanctum believed in ghosts.
The priest turned toward her, at last.
"Liesel Maren," he said.
She flinched.
He continued, "You shall now take your place in the order of blood and name. Do you accept the vows of union and obedience?"
She did not speak. She could not.
Otto's fingers curled around hers.
She nodded.
The priest placed his hand upon her veiled head.
"And now you are born again," he said.
She never heard her old name again after that.
When the ceremony ended, the registry was brought forth, a thick tome bound in leather, gilded at the corners, locked with a silver clasp. The priest opened it to the proper page. A quill was placed into her trembling hand.
She signed her name as she had practiced:
Isolde von Adalbrecht
And beneath it, the title: Archduchess of Valcheim.
The priest sealed the page with wax and stamped the crest of the Sanctum.
The name Liesel Maren was never entered. There would be no record of her.
She had been erased.
The bedchamber was large and cold. The silken sheets felt foreign against her skin. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing gold across the stone floor.
Otto poured two glasses of wine. He said nothing for a long time. Then:
"You were perfect."
She sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap.
"I told you, didn't I?" he said softly. "You'll never feel small again."
Isolde did not answer.
Outside, the wind howled through the towers of Blutthal Fortress, a song of wolves and winter.
And Isolde, wife, duchess, ghost of a girl, closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else.