By morning, the palace had already decided what it wanted to remember.
Isolde felt it the moment she stepped beyond her chambers—not in overt stares or whispered condemnation, but in something subtler. The pauses between greetings were shorter. The bows less were careful. Conversations resumed more quickly once she passed.
She walked the corridor with measured pace, Marcus was half a step behind her, exactly where he was meant to be.
"Good morning, Your Highness," a courtier said, smiling too easily.
"Good morning," Isolde replied, her tone polite, unremarkable.
As she moved on, fragments reached her from the courtiers and servants talking.
"…not improper, merely confident—"
"…said he approached her, not the other way around—"
"…hardly looked impressed—"
Isolde did not react.
But she catalogued everything she heard.
The story was no longer about charity. Nor about sermons. Nor even about flirtation, truly. It had shifted shape overnight, smoothed by repetition.
What remained was interest.
She reached the inner courtyard and paused, ostensibly to admire the winter roses coaxed into bloom by careful gardeners. Marcus halted behind her, alert but silent.
"They aren't watching you like they were yesterday," he said quietly.
"No," Isolde agreed. "But they're listening."
"That's worse." he replied.
"It is, sometimes." she said. "But sometimes it's better."
Marcus frowned slightly. "You didn't authorize any response."
"No. I did not." she replied.
"Then who—" Marcus was about to ask. But it was already obvious who it was. They just did not name him yet.
She lifted a hand, not dismissive, simply decisive. "We'll know soon enough."
As if summoned by the thought, a ripple of laughter drifted from the far side of the courtyard. It wasn't loud. It didn't carry authority. But it moved people—drawn and not commanded.
Isolde turned just enough to see the source.
Raphael Mirecourt stood near the colonnade, engaged in conversation with a pair of minor nobles. He leaned casually against a pillar with his posture relaxed and smile warm. Nothing about him suggested urgency or intent.
Yet the space around him felt lighter.
Isolde watched as one of the nobles laughed and repeated something Raphael had said to another passing courtier, who smiled and nodded and carried it onward.
A story traveling without being told.
Marcus followed her gaze.
His expression tightened—not with jealousy, but with calculation.
"That man," he said with a low voice. "He's involved."
Isolde said nothing.
She didn't need to. It was evident already.
Raphael listened.
He had learned long ago that people revealed more when they believed themselves to be speaking freely—and courts were full of those who mistook proximity for privacy.
"…thought she'd be more rattled," a woman murmured.
"…if the Temple truly disapproved, they would have acted—"
"…perhaps she's not as reckless as rumored—"
Raphael smiled and nodded to himself. He offered a mild observation here and there. He never contradicted and never corrected.
He only reframed.
"It was interesting," he said lightly at one point, as if recalling the salon in passing. "How calm she was. I've seen people with less attention crumble under far less."
A pause.
Someone else picked it up and repeated what he said. "Yes. Her highness really is composed."
Raphael let the word settle.
They think this is about charm, he thought.
That's the advantage.
He shifted position slightly, allowing another group to draw him in. A servant lingered nearby, pretending not to listen.
Raphael noticed. He always did.
"Princess Mireya looked surprised," someone remarked. "I'd assumed—"
"Assumptions are dangerous," Raphael said gently. "They tend to embarrass the person making them. So, let's not use such words."
Laughter followed. Soft and agreeable.
He felt the current change of direction.
Good.
Curiosity opens doors that doctrine can't.
Across the courtyard, he caught sight of Marcus Valenor.
The general stood like a wall—still, solid, every line of his posture designed to intercept threat before it reached its target. His eyes never left Isolde for long.
Raphael studied him with quiet interest.
He is necessary. A wall to protect her highness. he thought. Strong and dependent. Someone that can defend her highness from physical dangers.
Marcus turned, briefly, and their gazes met.
The moment held between them.
No challenge. No greeting.
Just recognition.
Raphael inclined his head slightly—respect and not submission—and looked away first.
But walls don't change rooms, he thought as he turned back to his conversation.
They just keep things out.
His gaze returned, inevitably, to Isolde.
I want to be the thing she lets in.
Princess Mireya chose her moment carefully.
She waited until the late morning lull, when court energy softened into routine and attention drifted toward idle conversation. Her circle gathered near the eastern windows—faces familiar, loyalties assumed.
She smiled as she spoke, her tone light, almost amused.
"I hear my youngest sister has developed quite the talent for drawing attention," she said. "One might mistake it for ambition."
A ripple of polite laughter followed.
"Lord Mirecourt does enjoy conversation," Mireya continued. "I suppose some men find such novelty irresistible."
She paused, letting the implication breathe.
Silence answered her.
Not the sharp kind. But the awkward one.
A lady tilted her head. "I thought he approached the princess, not the other way around."
Another added, "He didn't seem to linger long enough."
Mireya's smile held, but only just. "Still," she said, "it invites speculation. Doesn't it?"
"Does it?" someone asked. "It seemed rather… one-sided. It was Lord Mirecourt that approached first after all."
The words landed wrong.
Mireya felt it immediately—the shift, the subtle distancing she was trying to create. Her attempt to frame the narrative had come too late, and came without teeth.
Raphael had already done his work. The news that he was the first to approach Princess Isolde has already traveled salons in the capital.
Across the room, Isolde observed the exchange from a distance, her expression composed. Marcus stood beside her, his presence steady.
"You see it now," Marcus said quietly.
"Yes," Isolde replied.
"Do you want me to intervene?" he asked.
"No." she replied. "It is better this way."
He hesitated. "He's making you a focal point."
"I already was without him doing anything." Isolde said calmly. "He's just changing the lens that people are seeing through."
Marcus studied Raphael again, watching how easily he moved through the room, how people leaned in without realizing it.
"He's dangerous," Marcus said.
"Yes, in a way he is." Isolde agreed. "But not to me."
Marcus didn't answer.
Across the salon, Raphael laughed softly at something a courtier said, his attention apparently elsewhere. But for a brief moment—just long enough to be certain—his gaze flicked toward Isolde.
Their eyes met.
He did not smile.
He simply inclined his head, acknowledging—not her title, but her awareness.
She sees it, Raphael thought.
Good.
Isolde turned away first.
But the decision had already been made—not aloud, not formally.
Something had shifted.
And for the first time since entering the palace's deeper games, Princess Isolde Lysoria was no longer the only one moving pieces in silence.
The corridor outside Isolde's chambers was empty by design.
Marcus had ensured it. He posted guards just far enough away to satisfy protocol, dismissed attendants with the excuse of a scheduling change. When the doors closed behind them, the hush that followed felt deliberate and charged.
"You didn't tell me," Marcus said.
Isolde set aside her gloves and turned to face him. "Tell you what?"
"That you intended to let him move unchecked." he replied.
"I didn't intend anything to happen." she replied evenly. "I merely observed what was happening around."
Marcus took a step closer than he usually allowed himself in private—still proper, still restrained, but unmistakably nearer. "He's changing the court's posture toward you."
"Yes, I can see that." Isolde replied.
"Without your consent." he said with a deeper tone.
She considered that. "Without my objection." she corrected.
Marcus's jaw tightened. "There's a difference."
"There is." Isolde agreed. "And if it favors me, then I will stand by and watch."
He exhaled through his nose, a controlled release. "I've spent years learning how threats appear. He doesn't look like one."
"That's precisely why he's effective." Isolde said. "He maybe of use to me."
Marcus fell silent, weighing her words. He looked tired—not physically, but in the way of a man whose instincts were being challenged by a battlefield he did not command.
"I can't intercept what I can't see." he said at last. "I cannot protect you from such forces."
"You don't need to on guard." Isolde replied gently. "You hold the line. Let him… soften it."
Marcus studied her face, searching for hesitation. Finding none unsettled him more than resistance would have.
"If he endangers you—" Marcus cut off midsentence. He cannot imagine what he would do if Isolde were put in danger. He clenched his fists hard.
"I know." Isolde said quietly and gently clasped his fists soothing him. "You'll stop him. I trust you."
Their gazes held.
Marcus nodded once. Acceptance but not agreement.
And beneath it, something else—recognition.
This man would not be pushed aside.
Nor would he step aside. He will protect Isolde in his own way.
Raphael did not seek Isolde that evening.
That, too, was intentional.
Instead, he lingered where information pooled—near the refreshment tables, by the open arches where servants passed freely, in the spaces courtiers forgot to guard because they mistook ease for safety.
He spoke to a clerk who worried about Temple audits. To a lady anxious about her son's prospects. To a guard whose unit had been rotated without explanation.
He offered nothing concrete.
Only context.
"People mistake scrutiny for condemnation," he said lightly to one group. "Often it's just uncertainty dressed up as concern."
Someone repeated it.
Elsewhere, he laughed softly and said, "If the Temple truly disapproved, they would not whisper."
That traveled faster.
Raphael felt the shift like a current aligning under his feet.
Careful, he told himself.
Not too much.
He caught Marcus's presence before he saw him. He was alone this time, Princess Isolde was already resting in her quarters for the night.
Marcus approached him directly this time.
Not aggressively.
Not deferentially.
"You're altering the court's behavior," Marcus said, stopping at a respectful distance.
Raphael inclined his head. "So are you."
"I do it with permission." Marcys replied.
Raphael smiled faintly. "So do I."
Marcus's eyes sharpened. "From whom?"
Raphael's gaze flicked, just briefly, towards the inner palace where Isolde's chambers are located.
Marcus followed it.
Understanding landed—heavy, unwelcome.
"You haven't been asked to." Marcus said.
"No." Raphael replied easily. "But I haven't been refused either."
Silence stretched.
Raphael met Marcus's gaze fully now, all humor gone. "You guard her body," he said quietly. "I guard the space around it."
Marcus considered him for a long moment.
"If you misstep even a little," he said, "I won't hesitate."
Raphael nodded once. "I wouldn't expect you to."
They parted without another word.
Behind Raphael's calm exterior, something settled—an alignment, a quiet satisfaction.
Marcus Valenor sees me, he thought.
That is good.
Isolde allowed Raphael a second exchange the following day.
It was brief in a public setting. Unremarkable to anyone not watching closely.
She paused near a window where light spilled generously across polished stone. Raphael happened to be there already, speaking with a pair of courtiers. He fell silent as she approached, stepping aside with graceful immediacy.
"Lord Mirecourt," Isolde said. "You seem… busy."
"I was merely listening," Raphael replied. "The palace has much to say lately."
"So, I've heard." Isolde replied.
Their eyes met—not challenging, not coy.
It was measured.
"I wanted to thank you," Isolde said.
"For what?" he asked.
"For reminding people that uncertainty is not the same as guilt." she replied.
Then a pause. Raphael smiled—not broadly, not theatrically.
"You're welcome," he said. "Though I suspect they would have realized eventually."
"I doubt it." Isolde replied. "People prefer conclusions."
"And you?" Raphael asked, curiosity threading his tone.
"I prefer options."
Something in his expression softened at that.
Marcus stood several steps away, watching them. He did not interrupt. He did not move closer. But his attention was focused and unyielding.
Raphael felt it and respected it.
She's choosing how close to let me stand, Raphael thought.
That's more than I hoped for today.
Isolde inclined her head. The exchange ended.
No promise made.
No boundary crossed.
But the acknowledgment lingered—felt, not seen.
That night, Raphael walked the quieter corridors alone.
The palace at rest revealed truths it concealed during the day—the uneven rhythms of breath behind doors, the soft tread of servants who believed themselves unseen, the whispers that slipped through stone as easily as smoke.
He paused near an open arch, the city lights beyond flickering like scattered embers.
He thought of Isolde's composure. Of Marcus's restraint. Of Mireya's misstep.
Of the space opening—narrow, dangerous, promising.
I won't corner her, he told himself.
I won't force my way in.
He had learned, long ago, that the surest way to lose someone was to claim them without asking.
I want to be included in her life. he admitted silently.
Not used. Not assigned. Chosen personally.
A smile curved his lips. It was small and private.
If she builds a throne, he thought,
I want to be invited to stand beside it.
And if she never asked?
Raphael looked out over the city, expression calm, resolved.
Then I'll still keep the path clear.
Because some choices were not made to be rewarded.
They were made because they were right.