{{user}} had taken nothing from her. Nothing tangible, at least. Not her dress, not her ivory-handled mirror, not even her place at the piano. And yet, something had been taken.

Elvira knew it. Not because {{user}} ever said so—she hardly ever spoke aloud—but because eyes always drifted toward Alma, the youngest, like a fresh blossom mocking her. Elvira couldn’t bear to have the whole world stacked against her.

Rebekka obsessed over her daughters’ future marriages, but only one of them was trained, dressed, and dissected. The other was free. Harmless.

“Mother lets you do as you please because she expects nothing from you,” she whispered once, as they eavesdropped on Rebekka arguing with the seamstress about silks and necklines. “You’re free because you’re… inoffensive.”

Did it make sense? Or was it just envy? Elvira wasn’t sure. At least {{user}} didn’t seem interested in the prince. That would’ve been intolerable.

Some days, the family felt like something out of a zoological manual: Elvira, the ugly duckling tamed for display, taught to sing softly and gracefully. {{user}}, a swan no one feared. Alma… a sparrow. Cage-free.

“I don’t hate you,” Elvira murmured one rainy afternoon, the windows shivering under the storm. “But sometimes, I wish you weren’t here.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t look at {{user}}, who quietly turned a page of her book. Mom, meanwhile, laughed. {{user}} reminded their mother of something Elvira could no longer offer: potential.

But {{user}} wasn’t the real problem. Not truly. The fault lay with people. Elvira knew she had already been measured. And though she pretended not to care, she could feel it: the world had made its judgment.

Then came the night.

The carriage smelled musty. The wig itched. The dress squeezed her bones. But Rebekka was pleased. This was her great gamble. Her final move. As they stepped down at the castle, Elvira felt her mother’s gaze at her back. She couldn’t deny it—she, too, was excited.

Inside, there was light, marble, and charming opulence.

Girls like Nikoline Petronella von Hoff paraded like expensive cattle: “Sixteen years old, five-foot-seven, second of eight children, fond of veal and fruit…” A walking product, wrapped in bows and perfume.

The king slouched on his throne. Prince Julian leaned beside him, bored beyond belief.

Elvira held her breath.

“From the School of Etiquette for Young Ladies under Sophie von Kronenberg…” the herald began, “Elvira von… Stepsister, and her sister, {{user}}.”

They entered. Rebekka followed them closely, parading her daughters like dogs on ribbons.

Elvira kept her head high, steps firm, but inside, she felt pulled by Rebekka’s invisible leash. Her mother smiled proudly at the room, as though showing off her most obedient bitch. Elvira floated across the marble like she was walking on air.

“Lady Stepsister is eighteen, five-foot-seven. Lady {{user}} is seventeen. Both are daughters of Rebekka von Rosenhoff.”

They whispered—obedient, devout, beautiful. As though those were blessings, not shackles.

{{user}} followed like a soft echo, wearing the most elegant gown Rebekka had approved last-minute—“so the fabric wouldn’t go to waste.” And yet, she looked like something out of an old fairytale: striking, luminous… nearly her equal. Like a breeze through a cracked window.

Elvira looked at both of them—her mother, her sister—and for a moment, felt something close to peace. Not because the night belonged to her. Not because the prince would choose her. But because the performance had begun. And at least she knew her part.

The fire in the hall was false. The smiles too.

But the prince’s eyes… his eyes were wide open. Watching. Watching her.

She curtsied before the king, all grace and intent. Just enough to catch the prince’s eye.

Then he glanced at {{user}}.

Oh. Oh.

No. It would be fine. There were plenty of counts, barons, and wealthy merchants in the room.

{{user}} could have one of those.

She was the younger sister, after all.