Isolde woke before the bells.
Last night was another show for those that were listening beyond closed doors. They knew spies were already planted inside Isolde's palace, but they still do not have means to unearth them. And thus, they need to perform their nightly duties, which was more of a performance rather than the real deed.
The light filtering through the curtains was pale and hesitant, as though even dawn were uncertain whether it should intrude. The air was still warm, carrying the faint trace of oil and linen and something else—something human, intimate, unmistakably shared.
She lay still for a moment, aware of her own breathing before she became aware of him.
Marcus sat near the window, fully dressed, his back to her. One elbow rested against the sill, his gaze fixed outward on the waking city below. He did not move when she shifted beneath the covers, but she knew he was awake. There was a particular stillness to a soldier who had not slept.
The night pressed back into her mind, not as images but as sensations.
The warmth of his hands at her waist.
The brush of his mouth against her throat.
The way he had paused—always paused—as if asking permission without words.
They had kissed. Slowly and carefully. Enough that the servants would never doubt the truth of what had occurred within these walls.
Enough that Isolde herself could not dismiss it as a performance.
She drew in a breath and sat up, pulling the sheet around her shoulders more from habit than modesty. Marcus turned then, his expression already composed, already distant.
"Your Highness," he said quietly.
The title felt heavier this morning.
"You need not be formal," Isolde replied. Her voice was steady, but she heard the faint roughness beneath it. "Not here."
Marcus inclined his head slightly. "Sorry. It was habit."
She did not press him. Instead, she looked at him—truly looked—and noted the tension in his jaw, the way his hands were clasped together as if to prevent them from remembering too much.
She wondered if he remembered the same things she did.
She wondered if that unsettled him as deeply as it unsettled her.
For Marcus, the memory came unbidden.
Not as desire, but as weight.
He remembered the moment she had leaned into him—not with urgency, not with demand, but with trust. The way her fingers had curled into the fabric of his sleeve, hesitant, then resolute. He remembered the heat of her skin beneath his palms and the way his body had responded instinctively, dangerously.
He had stopped.
Not because he did not want her.
Because he wanted her too much.
He had told himself it was discipline. That it was respect. That crossing that line would turn a contract into a chain.
But in the quiet of morning, with her sitting just a few paces away, he was no longer certain where restraint ended and fear began.
Isolde broke the silence first.
"We should review what we discussed last night," she said, practical as ever. "Before the day begins."
Marcus stood immediately. Too immediately.
"Of course."
She watched him carefully as he moved to the table, spreading the notes they had left unfinished. Maps, names, small marks made in her father's hand and now added to by her own.
There was comfort in that familiarity.
There was danger in the memory of his mouth on her skin.
They sat opposite one another at the narrow table, sunlight creeping inch by inch across the surface between them. Isolde had changed into a simple gown, pale and unadorned. Marcus did not comment on it, but his gaze flickered once before he mastered it.
She noticed.
She always noticed.
"These arrived late last night," Isolde said, sliding a folded letter toward him. "They came through indirect channels. No seals."
Marcus read quickly, his brow tightening. "They are from veterans?"
"Yes."
"They are careful," he said. "They do not ask for orders."
"They ask for reassurance," Isolde replied. "That they have not been discarded."
Marcus nodded once. "I assure you they have not."
He said it without hesitation, and Isolde understood then the depth of what she held—not command, but something more durable.
Loyalty without obligation.
She leaned back slightly. "I want no open movement yet."
"Agreed," Marcus said. "Anything visible will be dangerous."
Silence fell again, thicker this time.
Isolde folded her hands in her lap. "Marcus," she said, deliberately, "I want to be clear."
He met her gaze.
"Our agreement remains unchanged," she continued. "You are my ally until I ascend. When that day comes, I will grant you release from consortship. You will be free an your reinstatement to the military and merits will be given back."
Marcus answered instantly. "Yes, that is what we have agreed upon."
The words came easily.
Too easily.
Because even as he said them, something inside him resisted—not the promise itself, but the finality of it. Freedom had always been his goal. Freedom from command, from politics, from being used as a symbol.
So why did the thought of leaving her feel like abandonment?
Isolde watched his expression carefully, noting the briefest flicker of tension before his composure returned.
"You have my word," she said softly. "I will not trap you."
"I know," Marcus replied.
And he did.
Which somehow made it worse.
She rose, smoothing her skirts. "We will proceed as planned. Quietly. Methodically."
"Yes."
Their eyes met again, and for a moment the air between them tightened, filled with everything they were not saying.
Then Isolde looked away first.
Because if she did not, she suspected she might reach for him—and that would change everything.
The corridors beyond Isolde's chambers were already alive with movement by the time they emerged. Servants bowed, guards straightened, whispers stilled as she passed. The palace was always watching. Always weighing.
Isolde walked with measured steps, Marcus half a pace behind her as protocol demanded. To any observer, they were exactly what they were meant to appear to be: a newly married princess and her consort, quiet, unremarkable, properly contained.
In truth, the web was already tightening.
They reached Isolde's study, and within moments, messages began to arrive. Not formally. Not officially.
A clerk lingering too long.
A steward mentioning a name twice.
A sealed packet slipped into a stack of routine correspondence.
Marcus sorted through them with practiced efficiency, his face unreadable. Isolde watched him, noting how naturally authority settled over him without him ever claiming it.
"These are not requests," he said at last. "They are tests."
"Of your loyalty?" Isolde asked.
"Of my memory," Marcus replied. "They want to know if I remember them."
"And do you?"
He met her gaze. "Every one."
Isolde nodded. "Then remember this as well: no action without distance."
Marcus hesitated. "Distance?"
"From you," she clarified. "From me. From the palace."
He understood at once. "You want them to act as if I no longer exist."
"Yes."
"And when they do?"
"Then we will know who is patient," Isolde said. "And who is reckless."
Marcus studied her for a long moment. "You are asking them to trust silence."
"I am asking them to trust you," she corrected.
Something shifted in his expression then—something dangerous and deeply human.
He looked away first this time.
Later, when Marcus found himself alone in the training yard, blade moving through the familiar patterns of muscle and breath, it was not strategy that occupied his thoughts.
It was the memory of her hands, steady despite everything.
It was the way she had looked at him this morning—not with expectation, not with claim, but with awareness.
He struck harder than necessary, the blade singing through the air.
This was not what the contract had promised.
This was not what he had agreed to.
And yet, with every quiet order unspoken, with every glance he carefully avoided, Marcus felt the truth settle heavier in his chest:
He still wanted his freedom.
But for the first time, he was no longer certain what it would cost him.
The training yard lay empty at midday.
Isolde had not intended to go there. Her steps had carried her toward the western galleries, toward the quieter halls where clerks moved softly and nothing demanded her attention. But sound had reached her before intention—a sharp, familiar whistle through air, followed by the unmistakable ring of steel.
She paused at the archway.
Marcus stood alone at the center of the yard, his coat discarded, sleeves rolled back to reveal forearms corded with muscle and old scars. His blade moved with ruthless precision, cutting clean arcs through the space before him. Each strike was controlled, practiced, almost violent in its restraint.
He was not sparring.
He was remembering.
Isolde watched without announcing herself. She had learned the value of observation long ago—how much truth revealed itself when people believed they were alone.
Marcus's breathing was measured, but tight. His grip was firm, knuckles pale against the hilt. The blade flashed, turned, struck again.
Too hard.
She recognized the signs not as a soldier, but as someone trained to see strain where others saw discipline. This was not the calm of readiness. This was the tension of something held back too tightly.
The memory of the morning returned to her unbidden—the careful distance he had maintained, the speed with which he had agreed to reaffirm the contract, the way he had not once looked at her for longer than courtesy required.
She understood then.
He was not retreating from her authority.
He was retreating from himself.
The blade struck the practice post with a dull crack, biting deeper than intended. Marcus stilled, breath flaring once through his nose before he forced it back under control.
Isolde stepped forward.
"Your stance is drifting," she said calmly.
Marcus turned sharply, surprise flickering across his face before discipline reclaimed it. He straightened, sheathing the blade in one smooth motion.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing his head.
"You favor your left side today," Isolde continued, as if discussing the weather. "That suggests distraction."
Marcus did not deny it. He merely said, "Old habits I suppose."
She studied him for a moment longer, then inclined her head. "Do not injure yourself. You are more useful intact."
A faint, almost-smile tugged at his mouth before it vanished. "Yes, Princess. Understood."
She left him there, the sound of her footsteps echoing briefly against stone.
Marcus did not resume training.
He stood alone in the yard long after she was gone, blade resting uselessly at his side, her words replaying in his mind—not as command, but as concern carefully disguised.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
The knock on Isold'es office door came without ceremony.
Isolde looked up from her desk, already aware of who it would be. The servants did not announce him because he had never required it.
"Enter," she said.
The door opened, and Prince Lucien Solaryn stepped inside.
He was five years older that Isolde. Taller than her by several inches, broad-shouldered without the exaggerated build of a court-trained knight. His attire was simple by imperial standards—dark coat, no ornament beyond the discreet clasp that marked him as a son of the Empress. No crown. No claim. No audience.
Lucien never dressed like a prince because Lysoria had never taught its sons to be one.
"Little sister," he said mildly, closing the door behind him.
Isolde allowed herself a small exhale. "You are early."
"You always say that," Lucien replied, taking the chair opposite her without waiting for permission. "And yet I'm always right on time."
She studied him briefly—not as a sister, but as a ruler-in-waiting assessing a variable. Lucien had been born of one of their mother's lowest-ranking consorts, a soldier who had died years ago on the border. By law, Lucien would never inherit the throne.
By practice, he moved through the palace more freely than most councilors.
"You were at the western wing," Isolde said.
Lucien arched a brow. "You noticed."
"I notice what others overlook," she replied.
He smiled faintly. "Good. Then you've likely noticed the Temple stirring."
Isolde folded her hands together. "They always stir when they feel ignored."
"This time," Lucien said, leaning back slightly, "they're not focused on you."
Her gaze sharpened. "Then on whom?"
"Your consort." he replied. "The former general."
Of course.
Lucien continued, his tone careful. "They are asking questions. The quiet ones. About Marcus Valenor's influence. About whether his loyalty is personal or structural."
"And what answer do they want?" Isolde asked.
"They want to know whether he is a blade you wield," Lucien said, "or a shield that might move on its own."
Isolde did not respond immediately.
She thought of the training yard. The tension in Marcus's stance. The restraint that bordered on self-punishment.
"They will find him difficult to measure," she said at last.
Lucien's gaze softened slightly. "You care for him?"
It was not an accusation. Not even curiosity.
It was an observation.
Isolde met her brother's eyes steadily. "I trust him."
"That wasn't what I said." Lucien said.
She allowed a pause—just long enough to acknowledge the truth without surrendering it.
"He is bound to me by law," Isolde said carefully. "And loyal by choice. That is enough."
Lucien nodded once, accepting the answer for what it was—and what it avoided.
"The Temple is patient," he said. "But Princess Caelia is not."
Isolde's lips pressed together. "She expected Silvain. She wants him as one of her consorts."
"And she still does." Lucien replied. "And expectations, when denied, tend to harden into grievance."
He leaned forward slightly. "Be careful, Isolde. Men like Marcus do not fracture loudly. They endure. And when they finally break, they blame themselves long before they blame anyone else."
Isolde felt the weight of that settle uncomfortably in her chest.
"I will not be the cause of his breaking," she said.
Lucien studied her for a long moment, then stood. "Good. Because if he breaks, the army will feel it before the council ever does. But while I am here, the army can still steer on your favorm sister."
Prince Lucien had gone up the ranks of the military. And now that Marcus had his seat vacant, he is a goof contender as a generel.
"You are still new to the army. What can you do to help me." Isolde joked. "But I am thankful for the thought, big brother."
"You know I like you." Lucien said. "Compared to out b*tch sisters that have god complex."
Both of them giggled from the joke.
He moved toward the door, then paused.
"For what it's worth," he added quietly, "Mother watches you more closely than you think."
The door closed behind him.
Isolde remained seated long after he was gone.
Lucien had never sought power. He had never wanted the throne.
And yet, in that moment, Isolde understood why her father had once trusted him, his student.
Because Lucien Solaryn saw what others dismissed—and spoke only when it mattered.
Evening settled slowly, shadows stretching long across Isolde's chambers. Candles were lit one by one, their flames steady in the still air.
Marcus entered at her summons, posture composed, expression unreadable.
"You wished to see me," he said.
"Yes," Isolde replied. She gestured toward the table between them—not the strategy table, but the smaller one near the hearth, meant for quieter conversations.
He sat when she did.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Isolde said, "I want to be clear about something."
Marcus's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "So do I."
She reached into the drawer beside her and withdrew the folded parchment of their contract. She did not open it. She merely placed it between them.
"Our agreement," she said, "remains exactly as written."
Marcus nodded once. "I have not forgotten."
"Good," Isolde said. "Because I will not allow silence to rewrite it."
She met his eyes directly now.
"When I ascend," she continued, "you will be released from consortship. Your reinstatement and merits restored. You can leave if you wish. You will owe me nothing beyond what you have already given."
Marcus's reply came quickly. "That is what I want."
The words were correct.
They were also hollow.
Isolde heard it. She saw it in the way his fingers curled slightly against the table, in the way his gaze held hers a heartbeat too long before slipping away.
"You will not stay out of obligation," she said softly. "Nor out of guilt."
Marcus swallowed. "I would never—"
"I know," she interrupted gently. "Which is why I am saying this now."
Silence fell again.
Marcus forced himself to breathe evenly. This was the promise he had demanded. The exit he had insisted upon.
So why did it feel like something was being taken from him?
"I am grateful," he said at last.
Isolde inclined her head. "Then we understand each other."
They stood together, distance carefully maintained.
But as Marcus turned to leave, Isolde felt the shift—not in the room, but within herself. A faint, unwelcome awareness of how easily things could unravel if either of them chose differently.
Night fell fully.
Marcus did not sleep.
He sat alone in the adjoining chamber, the contract spread open before him on the small desk. Candlelight flickered across the parchment, illuminating the clause he had read a hundred times before.
Upon ascension, the First Royal Consort shall be granted full release from all marital and political obligations, retaining neither title nor duty.
Freedom.
He had wanted this. Had demanded it.
He had told himself it was mercy—to her and to himself.
Now, the words felt foreign.
He imagined leaving the palace. Leaving her. Imagined her continuing forward without him, crowned, untouchable, surrounded by men who had not fought the urge to stay away.
The thought tightened his chest.
Marcus closed his eyes.
A contract should be simple.
Ink. Terms. Endings.
And yet, for the first time in his life, Marcus Valenor realized that he was no longer certain whether the freedom he had secured was something he truly wanted—or merely something he had been too afraid to refuse.