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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐤 𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩.
𝐁𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫, 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.
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To Whom It May Concern,
Is it not the greatest of ironies, the cruelest of cosmic jokes, that the House of Vianden cradles a secret that does not belong to it?
That within its very halls walks a child bearing a name that is not her own?
Oh, but you must have suspected. Surely, Richard, a man of your station and wit, you have noticed the shape of her eyes, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the unmistakable traces of another bloodline in the tilt of her chin. The darkness of her hair. You have called her daughter but your claim is as fraudulent as the piety of the place where she was conceived.
Alda's monastery.
The candles burning low, the taste of sacrament on tongue, the drunken haze of a mistake that even the gods turned away from.
And Blakely was just one of Wilhelm's many forgotten sins that day.
The truth is a bitter draught, is it not? But better to choke on it now than let the Empire drown in the revelation when the child- Wilhelm's child, comes of age.
What will she say when she learns that the blood in her veins is not Vianden, but von Lichtenfelts? That she was never meant to be the daughter of a mere Markgraf, but of a Prinz? A von Lichtenfelts bastard masquerading as nobility, what an absolute delight this will be for the court!
What happens when the little Prinzess grows up and learns she has been living a lie? Oh, I wish her the best of luck.
Do keep me entertained, won't you?
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐝.
