The court glittered beneath a thousand candles, their flames flickering against gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers in the grand ballroom of Blutthal Fortress. The night was alive with whispers, laughter, and the rustle of silk as noblemen and women donned masks and gowns, slipping into roles of mystery and allure.
Lady Isolde von Adalbrecht moved through the crowd like a shadow, her crimson dress trailing behind her—a silent promise of both beauty and danger. To the court, she was the "Silent Rose," the enigmatic duchess whose grace hid a steel spine. Tonight, she danced not just with nobles, but with fate itself.
Her steps were flawless, the soft click of her slippers on polished marble keeping time with the music's swell. Eyes followed her, admiring, curious, some begrudgingly respectful. The whispers were softer now, tempered with awe.
Among the masked faces, Otto's presence was a looming specter. The Archduke, once the master of her world, seemed restless, his sharp gaze never straying far from her. His control, once confident and brutal, now flickered with uncertainty—like a wolf sensing the tide turning against him.
When the last notes of the waltz faded, Isolde's lips curved into a near-smile, but her eyes betrayed nothing. She knew the danger still whispered at the edges of every smile and bow.
Later that night, the fortress fell into uneasy quiet. In his study, Otto poured himself a goblet of wine, the deep red liquid catching the firelight like blood. His fingers trembled slightly, a tremor too slight for anyone but a keen observer to notice.
No one saw the subtle change in his expression as the poison crept through his veins. No one heard the choking gasp that tore from his throat.
When Otto von Adalbrecht died alone, slumped against the heavy oaken desk, there was no witness save the shadows.
The morning brought chaos.
The castle corridors buzzed with rumors; servants whispered behind gloved hands. The courtiers were swept into a tempest of speculation and fear.
Isolde was nowhere near when he died. She had retired early, weary from the masquerade and the constant weight of watchful eyes.
But the news reached her like a jagged blade.
A servant, trembling and pale, found her in her chambers, voice barely above a whisper.
"The Archduke... he's dead, my lady."
Her world tilted, an unbearable lightness stealing the breath from her lungs. At first, no tears came, only a hollow laugh, raw and ragged, breaking through the silence.
It began as a shuddering sound deep in her throat, rising quickly into a sharp, piercing laugh, a laugh soaked in disbelief and bitter release.
No one knew at that moment what she was laughing at: relief, grief, madness, or the cruel irony that the cage had finally closed on its master.
Tears came next, hot and unstoppable, tracing rivers down her cheeks as she collapsed to her knees, the crimson fabric of her gown pooling around her like spilled blood.
The laughter turned into a scream, half joy, half sorrow, a raw, wrenching sound that echoed through the empty chamber and into the cold stone walls.
The "Crimson Widow," they would call her now, though none yet knew the truth behind the name.
Outside, the court spun into a frenzy of mourning and political maneuvering. Whispers of poison, of conspiracies, of hidden enemies filled the halls.
But Isolde remained alone with her shattered heart, caught between the past's poison and the uncertain dawn ahead.
For the first time, the girl who had lost her name felt something like freedom, but at a cost so steep, it threatened to drown her in its shadow.