The salon was meant to be forgettable.
It had been chosen precisely for that reason—no formal announcements, no petitions, no speeches. A gathering to smooth nerves after the Temple's audit, to reassure courtiers that order had not been disturbed by quiet acts of charity or whispered sermons.
Isolde attended because absence would have been remarked upon.
She stood near the edge of the room, hands folded lightly before her, listening more than speaking. The conversations around her flowed carefully—nothing too sharp, nothing too sincere. Praise was muted. Criticism hidden behind concern.
The room smelled faintly of citrus and polished stone.
Then the sound changed.
It was not loud. It never was.
It was the subtle alteration of rhythm—the way laughter grew warmer, the way voices shifted toward ease. Isolde felt it before she saw the cause, the instinct honed by years of surviving rooms where attention decided fate.
She turned slightly.
A man had just entered the salon.
He did not pause to announce himself. He did not seek permission or search the room with the anxious eyes of someone unsure of his welcome. He moved forward as though the space had been waiting for him all along, greeting one courtier, then another, with an easy familiarity that suggested long acquaintance.
He was handsome—undeniably so—but not in the careful way the court preferred. His hair fell just loose enough to suggest disinterest in mirrors, his smile carried warmth without submission, and his eyes… his eyes were observant.
They swept the room once.
Then they found Isolde.
The look did not linger. It did not widen or sharpen. It simply acknowledged her, as if he had noticed something worth remembering and trusted that he would have time to consider it later.
Isolde felt the faintest ripple of awareness pass through her—not flattery, not threat.
It was interest blooming inside her.
That unsettled her.
Marcus, standing at her customary remove, noticed the shift immediately. His posture stiffened a fraction, gaze following the subtle turn of the room's attention.
He saw the man.
And, without knowing why, disliked him.
Isolde did not move closer.
She did not need to.
The whispers reached her easily, carried on practiced discretion and the illusion of privacy.
"That's him."
"Mirecourt."
"He's unclaimed until now."
"Declined three offers the last season, I heard."
"He is too visible to waste, if you ask me."
Isolde tilted her head slightly, appearing to listen to a nearby discussion while absorbing every word.
Raphael Mirecourt.
The name surfaced in her memory—not attached to any official role, but to a pattern. Invitations accepted, favors granted, scandals avoided without effort. He was known for his presence more than his position, a man who belonged to the court without being claimed by it.
And today, the assumption was already being made.
Her gaze shifted subtly across the room.
Princess Mireya stood among a small cluster near the windows, her gown pale and exquisite, her posture composed. She laughed softly at something a courtier said, her expression gracious, expectant.
She had no consort.
That absence was no longer neutral.
Isolde understood the arithmetic immediately. Mireya needed visibility and Raphael offered it. The court had already paired them in its collective imagination.
A perfect match.
That is if he cooperated.
But Raphael did not look at Mireya.
He did not glance her way even once.
Instead, he moved through the salon with deliberate ease, exchanging remarks, laughing at the right moments, letting attention follow him without effort. And as he did, his path curved—subtly, unmistakably—toward Isolde.
Mireya noticed.
Her smile tightened by a hair's breadth.
Raphael approached Isolde as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He did not ask to be introduced.
He did not wait for someone else to bridge the space.
He stopped at a respectful distance and inclined his head—casual, not careless.
"Princess Isolde," he said, voice warm, unhurried. "I had hoped you would attend today."
Isolde met his gaze evenly. "Have we met before?"
"Not properly," he replied. "But I've been paying attention."
The words were simple. The implication was not.
She did not smile. "Then you've been watching the wrong things."
"On the contrary," Raphael said lightly. "I find I'm often most interested in what others overlook."
A pause.
Around them, conversations faltered—not stopped, but slowed, the way water does when it encounters a change in current. Isolde felt the attention gather, invisible but intense.
"You seem very certain," she said.
He smiled then—not broadly, not arrogantly, but with a hint of amusement. "Certainty is a luxury. I prefer curiosity."
She studied him for a moment longer, then inclined her head slightly. "Curiosity can be dangerous."
"So can silence," Raphael replied. "Yet you wield it beautifully."
Marcus felt the exchange like a blade drawn too close.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
Protocol held him in place, as Isolde had asked. As the eyes of the room tracked every breath.
Isolde was acutely aware of that restraint even as she kept her attention on Raphael.
"You flatter recklessly," she said.
"Only where I believe it will be forgiven," Raphael replied. "And only when it's deserved."
The boldness of it—of speaking to her not as an untouchable figure, but as a presence—was startling. Not inappropriate. Not insolent.
Intentional.
Isolde allowed a faint smile to touch her lips, more a courtesy than an invitation. "Enjoy the gathering, Lord Mirecourt."
"I am," he said. "Immensely."
She turned away then, ending the exchange cleanly.
The silence that followed was louder than applause.
Raphael did not pursue her.
That, more than anything else, made the moment linger.
He returned to the flow of the salon, laughing, conversing, yet the ripple remained. The court replayed the exchange in fragments, each observer carrying away a slightly different version—some saw boldness, others saw defiance, a few saw something far more dangerous.
Choice.
Princess Mireya stood very still.
Isolde felt her gaze like a prickle between her shoulders, sharp with sudden understanding. Mireya had expected interest. Perhaps even an approach. Instead, Raphael had crossed the room to someone else entirely—and not just anyone.
Isolde.
Marcus remained silent at her side, his presence steady, his restraint flawless. But Isolde could sense the tension beneath it, the way his awareness never left Raphael's movements.
As the gathering drew on, Isolde made her excuses and withdrew early.
She did not look back.
She did not seek Raphael out again.
She did not need to.
By the time she reached the corridor beyond the salon, the damage—or the opportunity—had already taken root.
Raphael Mirecourt had not challenged morality.
He had not defied doctrine.
He had not argued with the Temple.
He had simply made Isolde interesting.
And in Lysoria, interest was power.
Princess Mireya did not raise her voice.
She did not storm from the salon, nor did she allow her displeasure to reach her eyes while witnesses remained. She laughed when laughter was expected, inclined her head at the appropriate moments, and accepted compliments with practiced ease.
Only when she reached the antechamber beyond the gardens did her pace quicken.
The door closed behind her with a soft, controlled sound.
Mireya stood very still, her hands clasped tightly before her, her breathing shallow. She replayed the moment again and again—not the conversation itself, but the sequence of attention.
Raphael had entered.
He had been watched.
And then—he had turned.
Not toward her.
Not toward the expectation that had already been prepared in his path.
But toward Isolde.
The insult was not that he had flirted.
It was that he had not even considered her.
Mireya's fingers tightened until her knuckles whitened.
She had made herself visible. She had been gracious. She had been available for him to see. She had allowed the court to assume what it wished because assumption was power when left uncorrected.
And he had shattered it with a smile.
"Unclaimed," she murmured, bitterness seeping into the word. "Unclaimed does not mean unselective."
Her attendant lingered near the door, careful not to intrude. Mireya did not dismiss her.
"Did you see?" Mireya asked quietly.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Good," Mireya replied. "Then others did as well."
The attendant hesitated. "It may have meant nothing."
Mireya laughed softly, humorless. "Nothing does not draw a room that way."
She turned, her expression already smoothing back into composure.
"If Lord Mirecourt believes he can make sport of the palace," she said, "then he has misunderstood where he stands."
And if Isolde believed this was merely charm—
Mireya's smile sharpened.
—then perhaps her youngest sister was not as harmless as she pretended.
By the time Isolde returned to her chambers, the palace had already begun its work.
She felt it in the way servants avoided direct eye contact, in the way courtiers lingered just long enough to confirm details. The story had not yet settled, but it was forming—shaped not by what had been said, but by what had been seen.
Marcus followed her in silence.
He waited until the door closed before speaking. "He was deliberate."
"Yes," Isolde replied, removing her gloves and setting them aside with care.
"He knew he was being watched," Marcus continued. "And he wanted to be."
"I suppose so."
"And you allowed it."
She paused, considering her answer. "I did not stop it."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "There is a difference."
Isolde turned to face him fully. "There is," she agreed. "And it matters."
She moved past him to the window, gazing out over the inner gardens. The last of the light was fading, shadows stretching long across the paths.
"They will repeat what they saw," she said. "Not what they think."
Marcus crossed his arms. "And what did they see?"
Isolde considered it carefully.
"A man who chose to speak to me," she said. "And a woman who did not forbid it."
Marcus exhaled slowly. "You realize what that implies."
"Of course."
"That you are open to being approached."
Isolde's gaze did not waver. "No. That I am not afraid of being noticed."
The distinction was subtle. It was everything.
Marcus said nothing more, but the tension in him did not ease. He understood restraint as well as anyone—but this was a different kind of danger, one that did not announce itself with steel or doctrine.
This was social war.
And Raphael had just declared a front.
Later that evening, Isolde dismissed her attendants and remained alone with her thoughts.
She did not summon Marcus again.
She did not seek Raphael.
She sat at her writing desk, reviewing notes she did not truly need to review, her mind circling the same question.
Why had he approached her?
Not ambition—he had other options. Not recklessness—he had been too precise for that. Not desperation—his confidence had been unforced.
Choice.
The idea unsettled her more than it should have.
Marcus had been bound to her by necessity. Their alliance was survival, their marriage a shield neither of them had chosen freely. Whatever lay between them now—tension, restraint, something unspoken—it had grown from circumstance.
Raphael had no such constraint.
He had stepped forward knowing exactly what it would cost him socially. Knowing who watched. Knowing who would resent it.
And he had done so anyway.
Not to claim her.
Not to corner her.
But to be seen choosing her.
Isolde leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled.
Curiosity was not trust.
And it was certainly not affection.
But it was a crack in the wall she had built so carefully.
When Isolde finally rose from her desk, she returned to the window once more, the city lights below flickering like distant stars.
Her mind arranged the pieces as it always did—quietly, without haste.
Marcus remained necessary.
He is bound to her.
Dangerous in his restraint.
Raphael was something else entirely.
He had not been placed at her side.
He had not been forced into proximity.
He had not been sent by council or crown.
He had approached her of his own will.
And more importantly—he could leave just as easily.
Influence like that could not be ordered.
It had to be drawn in.
Handled carefully.
Reined, not restrained.
Isolde rested her palm against the glass, decision settling slowly, deliberately.
Marcus was a blade I was given, she thought. I double edged one.
But Raphael…
Raphael Mirecourt was the first man she might choose to bring closer.
Not as a lover.
Not yet.
But as a force that could bend the palace in ways doctrine never could.
Her lips curved faintly—not into a smile, but into something more dangerous.
Interest.
And somewhere beyond her chambers, laughter carried through the corridors, light and unguarded, as Raphael Mirecourt continued to do exactly what he did best.
Let the court talk.