The courtyard vibrated with a hushed, collective dread—a low drone of murmured words, choked breaths, and the rustle of fine cloth shifting in the crisp air.
On the balcony above, a girl in a white embroidered gown appeared, her small hands gripping the railing. The wind toyed with her hair, long curls of a startling, brilliant copper that caught the morning light like strands of flame. She leaned forward, not out of understanding, but from a deep, wordless pull.
Beside her, King Wilhelm took his place. His expression was carved from stone, softened only by the faint, chilling suggestion of a smile at the corner of his lips.
Below, in the center of the yard, a woman knelt. Though her wrists were bound, she held herself with a queen's poise. Her tears fell not in hysteria, but in a quiet, profound grief—a mourning for the life she was leaving.
Gisela was too young to comprehend the history being etched into her soul with a blade's edge.
The royal executioner, a man whose severe bearing spoke of grim expertise, stepped forward. With a gesture that held a terrible, incongruous gentleness, he placed a black cloth over the woman's eyes.
"Her Majesty may speak her final words," he intoned.
The woman lifted her chin, turning her face toward the balcony where she knew her daughter stood.
"Once more I declare, before all witnesses: I am innocent," her voice carried, clear and calm over the silent stones.
"But if this is my path,I shall meet it with grace.
To my daughter—my princess—I love you beyond life, and I always shall. May you be protected and guided in all trials.
And to my husband… my king… may your reign endure."
The silence that followed was absolute, heavy as a shroud.
The blade fell.
Swift.
Decisive.
And the queen passed from a woman into a memory. A suffocating stillness settled over the world.
---
"AHH!"
Gisela jolted awake, a gasp tearing from her throat. The echo of the dream clung to her, cold and vivid.
"Mother…"
Tears welled in her amber eyes as she pushed herself up, trembling. Morning light spilled into her chamber, gilding her wild, flame-colored hair.
"Today,I marry a man I have never seen," she whispered into the stillness. "Please… guide me."
For a fleeting breath, she felt it—not a touch, but a presence, gentle and passing, like the brush of a ghost. A warmth that was not from the sun.
She rose, her bare feet meeting the cool marble. An ache, faint but deep, lingered in her limbs. Her curls were a tangled cascade, like embers after a fire. She drew a steadying breath, listening to the muted sounds of the castle stirring—the soft shuffle of servants, the rustle of linens, the faint scent of beeswax candles being lit. Their efficient silence only tightened the knot of anxiety in her chest.
The door opened, and Lady Hilda entered, a gown of pale ivory draped over her arm like a promise.
"You slept restlessly again," she observed, her voice a soft anchor.
Gisela turned, her face pale, her stillness almost spectral in the dawn light.
"I dreamed of her.Of my mother. I… I cannot tell if it was a memory or a warning." Her voice wavered, her breath uneven.
A tear traced a path down her cheek.
"Perhaps she came to guide me across a threshold.Perhaps this marriage is the edge of a cliff, and she is trying to show me how to fly." Her gaze, though wet, burned with a desperate intensity.
"No, child," Hilda said, firm yet kind. "You must not let the shadows of sleep rule you."
Gisela raised a hand, her fingers trembling.
"Do not dismiss me,"she said, the tremor in her voice belying its determination. "What if he is as cold as my father? What if my life becomes a beautiful, silent cage?"
The strength left her legs. She sank to her knees, the sobs wracking her small frame, her tears soaking into the delicate fabric of her nightdress. The cool marble was a stark reality against her skin.
"Gisela." Hilda's voice was a command, calm and unshakable. "Look at me."
She knelt, brushing the copper curls from the girl's damp face.
"You are the future Queen of England,"she said, her words soft but resonant. "A woman of destiny. You will shape nations and bear kings. You cannot surrender to fear. You must rise—as your mother did—with courage. With dignity."
Hilda drew her into a firm, steadying embrace.
"Your mother was but ten when she wed your father.She faced her fate without flinching. You carry her blood. Her spirit. Her fire. Do not forget it."
Slowly, Gisela's breathing evened. She pulled back, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her eyes, swollen and glistening, now held a hard, resolved light.
A new strength, fierce and quiet, bloomed within her.
She stood. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted.
"I am Gisela,"she announced, her voice clear and ringing in the hushed chamber. "Princess of Germany. And I will be the Queen of England."
A bold, determined smile touched her lips, banishing the last vestige of the night's terror.
---
"Prepare the royal carriage!"
The chief guard's proclamation echoed down the corridors, his uniform a splash of royal blue and gold in the morning sun. Servants flurried into final action. Trumpets sounded a distant, brazen call.
The girl who climbed into the carriage was no longer afraid. She was a sovereign stepping toward her throne.
The horses stamped, their breath pluming in the cool air as the wheels began to turn. Inside the cabin, a heavy silence reigned, broken only by the whisper of her gown—white silk embroidered with delicate gold stripes—and the soft sigh of her settling skirts.
"Gisela."
Her father's voice was a knife in the quiet.Cold. Precise.
"Yes, Father?"
"See that you do not embarrass me." The words were flat, their edge honed by a lifetime of command.
"I have never dishonored you," she replied, her own voice quiet but threaded with steel.
He looked away, out the window at the passing world. "Be careful what you say. How you present yourself. The English court is a nest of vultures. They look for weakness."
A chill traced her spine, but she did not flinch.
"I will present myself as I am.With poise. With confidence."
A short, derisive scoff escaped him. "This is a political alliance. Nothing more."
"I understand, Father," she said, holding his gaze. "I was born for this. And I will be a good queen. Of that, I am certain."
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. His hand curled into a tight fist on his knee.
"Just like your mother,"he hissed, the words sharp with a venomous annoyance. "You have her infuriating tongue. Mind it in front of your husband, unless you wish your head to follow hers."
The carriage slowed. The grind of the wheels against cobblestones shifted, then ceased.
They had arrived. The threshold of her new life lay just beyond the door.