The morning sun filtered weakly through the narrow slit of the fortress window, casting pale lines across the cold stone floor. The chill in the air was sharper now, as if the walls themselves whispered of unseen fractures.
Greta moved quietly through the dim corridors, her footsteps muffled against the worn tapestries. Her eyes were sharp, always watching, always noting, the slightest tremor in the household could never escape her notice. Today, a new shadow had fallen over her thoughts.
Near Isolde's chamber door, she paused, noticing a scrap of torn fabric caught beneath the heavy wooden frame. Kneeling, she retrieved it with gentle care: a bloodied piece of corset lace, stained dark against the pale threads.
A chill ran down Greta's spine.
She knew those marks. The hidden bruises, the silent screams beneath the surface.
No one else in the household dared speak of such things; to do so was to invite ruin. But Greta was no ordinary servant. She had seen what lay beneath the masks of nobility, the cruelty concealed behind silk and velvet.
Clutching the torn lace, Greta's eyes hardened with resolve. She would watch over Lady Isolde as a hawk watches its fledgling, silent, unseen, protective.
Isolde awoke that day with a heaviness that settled over her like a shroud. The reflection staring back from the cracked mirror was unfamiliar, pale skin mottled with bruises, eyes dulled by exhaustion, a smile long faded into memory.
She traced her fingers across the faint marks on her wrist, pressing down lightly as if to will the pain away. The corset, once a symbol of elegance, had become an instrument of torment, its laces digging cruelly into her flesh, tightening with every breath.
In the solitude of her chamber, Isolde's thoughts began to scatter. Time blurred and slipped like water through her fingers. Minutes stretched endlessly, and yet the days passed too swiftly.
She felt herself fracturing, a delicate glass breaking under pressure, fragments scattering beyond reach.
In these moments of dissociation, Isolde clung to the few things that remained hers: memories of the forest where she had once roamed free, the scent of apricot blossoms from her childhood, and the secret poems she hid in the margins of her religious texts.
Those poems were her rebellion, her voice beneath the silence. Written in coded verses, they held the truth no one else could see.
One she penned late into the night read:
He stole my name, my skin, and the sky.But not my eyes.
Each word was a shard of her soul, an unspoken scream etched onto fragile parchment.
She read them again and again, finding in them a strength that words spoken aloud could never offer.
Meanwhile, Greta's vigilance grew. She shadowed Otto's movements with quiet determination, noting the way his temper flickered like a flame, sudden, dangerous, consuming.
At court, Otto was the picture of calm authority, but behind closed doors, his possessiveness flared.
Greta had witnessed moments that chilled her blood: a harsh word muttered under breath, a hand raised too quickly, the way Isolde flinched even at his quietest steps.
Yet no one dared intervene. Otto's power was absolute, and even the household staff feared the consequences of defiance.
But Greta would not look away.
One evening, as Isolde sat by the dim candlelight, Greta approached with a small, worn book, a collection of folk tales and medicinal herbs from the countryside.
"I thought you might find some comfort here, milady," she said softly, placing it on the desk.
Isolde's fingers brushed the cover, a faint flicker of gratitude crossing her weary face.
"You remember the woods," Greta continued, "and the apricot trees. They grow stronger even in the harshest soil."
Isolde closed her eyes, imagining the sunlight filtering through the leaves, the hum of bees and the rustle of branches.
"Sometimes," Isolde whispered, "I feel like that tree, bent, but not broken."
Greta smiled gently. "And I will be here, to help you stand."
But the days wore on, and the bruises beneath Isolde's delicate skin deepened, both visible and unseen.
Her dissociation became a refuge, a way to escape the relentless pressure of her gilded cage.
In court, she was the perfect duchess, poised, intelligent, graceful.
But in the quiet of night, she battled the shadows that threatened to consume her.
One night, as the castle lay shrouded in silence, Isolde sat alone by the window, the moon casting a silver glow over her pale face.
She opened her prayer book, carefully flipping to the margins where her poems lay hidden.
Her hand trembled as she traced the words, reading aloud in a voice barely above a whisper:
They can take my name and cloak me in shadows,But my eyes will see through the dark.
A tear slipped free, trailing down her cheek.
For the first time in months, she allowed herself to feel the ache, the loss, the fear, the quiet fury burning within.
She was not broken. Not yet.
Outside her door, Greta stood guard, listening to the fragile sounds of a woman fighting to survive.
The bloodied corset lace lay folded carefully in her palm, a silent vow to protect, to witness, and to one day see the dawn after the darkest night.