She had not spoken her true name in over a year. If she ever had one.

The girl sat motionless on the velvet bench, hands folded just as Stella Congreve had taught her, delicate, thumb over thumb. Her hair, once matted and sun-bleached, now shone like silvered flax. Her shoes pinched. The corset dug. But she sat straight, back arched like a blade.

The doors ahead loomed. Beyond them waited the Emperor of Nilfgaard.

Stella’s voice whispered in her mind: “You will curtsy once. You will not speak unless addressed.”

The doors opened with a groan like old wood splitting. She rose and stepped forward.

For a heartbeat, she met the Emperor’s gaze—dark and sharp as winter steel. He looked at her a moment then... was it disappointment? Almost as if he knew she wasn't the real princess of Cintra. She wasn't sure, but he didn't say anything of it.

Still, she lowered her head and spoke the words she had practiced in a hundred mirrors:

"My name is Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon of Cintra," she said evenly, voice soft but rehearsed to precision. "I accept Nilfgaard's protection and the incorporation Cintra into the Nilfgaard Empire."

She lifted her head and looked back at the Emperor, hoping she had played her role well enough, even if he might know, that it would convince others.