It was supposed to be a celebration.
A gathering of noble Houses at Lake Fortress, the ancestral seat of Lady Elsa von Adalbrecht and her husband Lord Reinhardt. The occasion was the midwinter renewal festival, an old custom where noble families offered wine and prayers to the lake for a prosperous year. Torches flickered in the wind, red silks fluttered above the frozen waters, and children played while music echoed in the halls.
Lady Elsa stood radiant at the heart of it all, a beloved noblewoman whose reputation for fairness and warmth crossed kingdom lines. Her husband had just raised a toast when the first scream broke through the night.
Then came the flames.
Masked men slipped in through the rear gates : assassins, dressed like servants, armed with curved blades and firebombs. Their targets: House von Adalbrecht and its allies.
No declaration. No negotiation. Just blood.
Elsa shielded two of her children as chaos erupted. Reinhardt fought to get to the armory but was struck down before he could reach it. Fire caught on the tapestries. Smoke choked the halls. Nobles scattered in terror, some leaping into the frozen lake below.
Within minutes, half the fortress was ablaze. Servants tried to smuggle children through secret tunnels, but only a few made it to safety. It was over almost as quickly as it began, twenty-seven dead, including both Elsa and Reinhardt. The banners of House von Adalbrecht dripped with blood and soot.
They called it The Crimson Veil Massacre because of the color the lake turned that night, red as garnet, glimmering beneath the moon.
The next morning, smoke still curled from the broken towers. City guards and local constables combed through the ruin, pulling corpses from ice and soot. Survivors, mostly minor guests and staff, were dazed, unable to speak clearly.
It was later determined the assassins hailed from the Southeast, likely hired by a rival faction connected to nobles of Ecléron, though the evidence remained murky. Officially, the attackers were "unknown raiders."
Unofficially, the Empire knew.
Isolde was in her solar at Blutthal when Greta delivered the sealed letter. The messenger was a Church courier, grim-faced and silent. The seal, a crimson wax rose, had been broken. Greta trembled as she handed it over.
Isolde opened the parchment with numb fingers.
"Lady Elsa von Adalbrecht, deceased. Lord Reinhardt, deceased. Five children alive but traumatized. Awaiting custody decision.
You are summoned."
She didn't cry. She folded the letter, laid it gently on her desk, and stood.
A day later, a second letter arrived: a decree signed by the Empress herself.
The chamber was tense, filled with nobles and lesser cousins, some from distant branches of the Adalbrecht family, others opportunists eager to secure guardianship over the children of a now-headless House.
Isolde entered in black and deep garnet, her face veiled, posture unshakably upright. She looked nineteen, too young, too delicate, too detached or so the courtiers whispered.
The Magistrate of the Northern Marches stood at the front of the hall, flanked by two imperial guards. He read from the decree:
"By the order of Her Imperial Majesty Lysandra von Montclair, Empress of the Six Kingdoms Lady Isolde von Adalbrecht, now Guardian of the Crimson Line, Protector of the Five Wards is to be instated as legal guardian of the surviving heirs of House von Adalbrecht."
Gasps. Murmurs.
A silver-haired cousin stepped forward. "She is not blood."
"She is too young," another snapped. "A widow with no noble lineage of her own."
"She was Elsa's ward," said a third. "Not her kin!"
The Magistrate raised a hand. "Silence."
He looked to Isolde, who had not moved.
"These are the orders of the Empress. And no one, no one, shall stand against them."
A hush fell. The threat was clear.
Even the Church representative, seated at the back, dared not raise objection.
Isolde Accepts the Blade
At the end of the proceeding, a ceremonial blade, the heirloom of the Crimson Line, was brought forth. Once carried by Reinhardt and passed to Elsa, it now awaited a new bearer.
Isolde did not hesitate.
She took the blade with steady hands and bowed her head.
"If I must be their shield, I will be. Even if they hate me for it."
Her voice rang like steel in the hall.
The nobles did not applaud. They only watched as the girl in mourning turned and left with the blade at her side, walking away from judgment and politics and toward a future filled with resentment, danger, and duty.