Meadow sat in her top-floor office, which felt a little cold. Outside, Vespertine’s sky was that deep violet it always was — the twin stars blending into a twilight that felt almost melancholic. The blue-white “Imperial Flame” hung low on the horizon, while the dim “Crimson Tear” hovered like a half-opened eye, casting an eerie, dark red afterglow.
Over the last three days she had studied Isolde’s medical file in minute detail and memorized every item:
- Mother died when she was seven (depression brought on by neglect from her father)
- A new therapist every year (none lasted longer than six months)
- Diagnosis: emotional blunting, social withdrawal, obsessive thoughts, PTSD
Grey Bird’s teaching whispered back to her:
“Eighty percent sincerity, twenty percent intelligence. If you want to get close to her, you must actually help her. Otherwise she will see through you.”
Meadow inhaled and checked the holo clock on her desk: 14:52. The princess would arrive at 15:00.
After a while, the door chimed — a soft, clear electronic prompt.
She composed herself, smoothed a professional, gentle expression onto her face and said quietly, “Come in.”
The door slid open without a sound.
The young woman standing at the threshold made Meadow’s chest tighten. This was Isolde von Reiss — smaller and more fragile than the holo file suggested, and paler, like a flower opening in an endless dusk without sunlight.
Isolde wore a sharply tailored, high-collared coat in a near-black tone, austere and deliberately unadorned. The fabric was unmistakably expensive, but the effect was one of controlled plainness and cold distance. The dark clothes made her complexion look porcelain-pale, flawless and fragile, as if the skin had never known warmth.
She hesitated half a beat at the doorway, as if adjusting to the light or following a habitual pause. Her posture was rigid — the result of years of royal etiquette — but Meadow detected a subtle stiffness, as if her body were a delicately carved statue with every joint wound tight, especially across the shoulders.
Then she lifted her head.
Meadow met her gaze and immediately understood why the file had stressed the need for treatment. Isolde’s eyes were deep; under the light their irises showed a rare deep violet, like the violet sky outside. They were large and beautiful, yet they lacked the liveliness and fervor usually found in youth. They were not empty, but instead brimmed with sharp vigilance and scrutiny—like a startled fawn ready to bolt—while also carrying a sense of detachment. Her look did not so much rest on Meadow’s face as sweep the whole room—the table, the sofa, the window—and after a brief glance at Meadow it settled on her anxiously clasped hands.
Her black hair was less prim than the archive photos; it fell simply over her shoulders, a few strands loose against her pale cheek that lent a rare, unvarnished authenticity. Her profile was aristocratic — sharp jaw, straight nose — but her lips were pressed thin and colorless, adding a stubborn, closed quality to the whole face.
She didn’t choose the comfortable sofa. Instead, she walked directly to the reclining therapy couch by the window, sat sideways, and looked out at the eternal violet sky without speaking. The room held only the faint hum of instruments.
Meadow did not rush her. She sat in her chair, open and patient. She knew that for someone who kept their heart shut so tightly, silence itself was a language and a test.
Fifty minutes later the timer sent a gentle chime.
Isolde startled, trembled slightly, stood and still didn’t look at Meadow as she moved toward the door. At the handle she paused for a beat, turned, offered Meadow a small nod, and left.
There had been no conversation, but Meadow knew something had shifted. Isolde had come. She had not fled. She had not refused. She had simply needed time.
Meadow returned to her lodgings, took off her white coat, and sat by the window staring at the violet sky with mixed feelings. The first appointment — fifty minutes of silence. But Isolde’s presence alone was a signal: a fragile opening.
One month later.
Isolde arrived again on time. This time she stopped in the center of the room and actually looked at Meadow.
“You are Anya Sharma?” she asked, voice thin and slightly hoarse, like someone who hadn’t used her voice in a long time.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Meadow offered a warm smile. “You can call me Anya.”
Isolde glanced back at the sky. “Do you think the Empire’s sky is beautiful?” she murmured. “I always thought its beauty made it hard to breathe.”
Meadow leaned in, soft and focused. “I hear weight in your words. That beauty seems to press on you, like something wrapping around you so you can’t breathe. Would you tell me more about what that feels like?”
Isolde paused, weighing. Then, quietly: “My mother…she died when I was tiny. She came from a noble family, then she married…that man.” She did not say “father” or “his majesty,” only “that man,” and the tone was icily distant. “He never loved her. After I was born he was rarely present. My mother used to look at the sky with such sadness.”
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Her voice trailed away. Meadow listened without interruption, offering gentle, empathetic reflections: “It sounds like your mother’s sorrow and that violet sky are welded to one another in your memory. That must have been a heavy, lonely childhood — losing your mother and lacking a father’s care. It must have felt like drifting alone in a vast, suffocating beauty.”
Isolde did not answer. After a long blink her lashes fluttered and her breathing slowed. Meadow thought she had dozed in memory, so she quietly rose, draped a soft blanket over the princess, and nudged the room’s temperature up a degree.
Two months later.
Isolde’s mood had lifted a little; a faint flush had returned to her cheeks. She even started a new topic.
“Anya, do you like mechs?” she asked, and for the first time something other than sadness flickered in her eyes. “I love studying them. When I’m in the mech lab, I feel very calm. It feels like the noise in my head stops.”
Meadow smiled encouragingly. “It sounds like the mech world is a refuge for you — a place of order where things follow clear laws, and that gives you a sense of control. What drew you to it originally?”
“They’re…pure,” Isolde said. “Structure, energy, physics — everything has traceable rules, not like people.” She paused, then hesitated in embarrassment. “Do you know the Crucible Simulation Network? It’s that mech game from the Terran Federation.” She looked a little ashamed, as if admitting to playing the enemy’s game.
Meadow shook her head, genuinely nonjudgmental: “Not strange at all, Your Highness. Interests cross borders. Finding a virtual space that feels safe is a small mercy. If the Crucible gives you a place to explore and feel secure, that’s a good thing.”
Isolde brightened. “There’s a player called ‘Loki’ — such a mystery. He never loses. I’m fascinated. If Loki and…that man were compared, who would be stronger?” She flushed, like a girl talking about an idol.
For an instant the emptiness in her eyes lit up; she revealed a seed of ordinary adolescent delight. Meadow felt something in her chest soften. She remembered the phrase “that man.”
(Meadow’s inner monologue at her lodgings)
At night, lying awake, Meadow didn’t always know whether she wanted her mission to succeed or to truly help this lonely princess. She thought of Jack. Would he understand what she was doing if he knew? “Jack, I’m protecting you. But the cost is…lying to someone lonelier than I am.” She closed her eyes, a salt sting behind them.
Three months later.
“Anya,” Isolde said, looking out the window with a familiar yearning, “do you like to dance? I like to dance. Only when I dance like that do I relax.”
Meadow smiled. “Yes. Dance is a wonderful way to express and to relax. It lets body and mind sink into rhythm and melody. Which dance do you like?”
“The waltz,” Isolde said softly. “My mother taught me.”
(Meadow’s inner monologue in her bathroom)
Alone, Meadow wiped the mirror and stared, feeling she’d changed in ways she no longer recognized. Isolde’s question about Loki and “that man” lingered — the princess loved someone unreachable. Meadow realized, with a little shock, that Isolde and she were the same in one important way: both of them loved somebody who felt out of reach. She closed her eyes and the tears came.
Four months later.
After another session Isolde did not immediately leave. She looked at Meadow with surprise and appreciation.
“Anya, you dance the waltz very well.”
Meadow smiled. She had waited for this moment. “Your Highness, if you don’t mind…” she moved to the open floor and performed a slight, courteous dip. “May I have the honor of a dance?”
Isolde blinked, then a bright, shy smile spread across her face. “Yes.”
The office system stored classical tracks. Meadow selected a gentle waltz — the same first song her mother had taught her. The melody filled the room with soft, nostalgic warmth.
She extended her hand. Isolde hesitated, then placed her cool, delicate fingers into Meadow’s palm.
They began to move. At first Isolde’s steps were tight and guarded, the posture of a royal trained to be immaculate, but Meadow did not force anything — she guided, slow and patient, using small body cues to invite and reassure. Grey Bird’s advice repeated in her head: “If she’s tense, slow down; if she relaxes, follow. You are not controlling; you are accompanying.”
Gradually Isolde’s shoulders loosened. Her steps smoothed, and she began to sway naturally, like a bud unfreezing. They rotated, separated, reunited. Meadow felt the princess’ breath against her neck, the faint warmth of her palms, even a quick, birdlike heartbeat finding a steadier rhythm — a trapped thing discovering a brief freedom.
Meadow felt a pang of guilt. She was teaching Isolde to trust, to open up, to connect -----all while hiding the biggest lie of all.
"Jack," she thought, "what would you think if you knew I was dancing with the enemy's princess... and I'm starting to care about her?"
Isolde’s eyes were no longer full of scrutiny but intent and an almost blissful relaxation. She forgot where she was and who she was, lost in the music and the rare intimacy of the dance. Violet light pooled around them and cast two interlaced shadows on the floor.
When the music slowed, they stopped with foreheads nearly touching, feeling each other’s breath. Isolde’s cheeks held a healthy blush; her eyes were wet and bright with a new light; a small, pure smile softened her lips.
“Thank you, Anya,” she whispered, with a barely noticeable dependence and affection.
Meadow looked at her — at a young woman who had dropped her armor and revealed a vulnerable interior — and felt herself soften in a way the mission hadn’t prepared her for. In that moment she almost forgot the task, the disguise, the war and the lie. She saw, plainly, a soul that longed to be warm, seen, and connected.
“My honor, Your Highness,” Meadow replied, her voice carrying a real warmth. She knew an invisible bridge had been built between them. Whatever the future held, this connection was real.
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On a screen elsewhere the image of Meadow and Isolde dancing froze on a final frame. The obsidian sphere’s light pulsed. A tiny ocular port extended and stared at the monitor. A data stream scrolled:
Observation Log #Month-4 — Entry 90,541
Time span: 2510-12-03 → 2511-04-03 (4 months)
Meadow Lin (alias: Anya Sharma)
Emotional curve: initially tense → gradually relaxed → sincerity ↑ (78%)
Mission posture: 89% → 74% → 62% (espionage component ↓)
Key acts: covered Isolde with a blanket; invited her to dance
Isolde von Reiss
Emotional openness: 0% → 12% → 31% → 58%
Trust toward Anya: no baseline → +67%
Key acts: volunteered memories of mother; mentioned “Loki” and “that man”; accepted dance invitation
The sphere paused. Analysis: Meadow Lin is not a pure spy. Her empathy is genuine. She is helping Isolde. But she is also deceiving Isolde.
Question: When the truth is revealed, will Isolde collapse? Will Meadow betray Isolde? Or… will Meadow betray the Federation?
Pause. The sphere opened another window — footage of Isolde disassembling mechs in a lab.
Isolde von Reiss: she hides from reality in mechs. She secretly loves “that man.” She worships “Loki.” She does not know that “Loki” is the Federation’s “coward,” Jack Harlan.
Irony. Tragedy. Fate.
The orb dimmed. Elina once said, “Loneliness can turn a person into a monster.” Is Isolde a monster — or a child abandoned by the world? Will Meadow save her or destroy her?
I do not know the answer. I will keep watching. One-hundred and eighty years of waiting… perhaps the answer will arise between them.
The monitor went dark. The cabin sank back into blackness. Only the battered “Goliath” drive flickered faint blue. Outside, the Genesis-class magnetic sail turned slowly in the violet sky — a vast, lonely eye, keeping eternal watch.