Princess Mireya did not shout.
She did not cry or accuse or reach for anything so crude as outrage. She chose something far more effective—concern.
It began as a question, uttered softly in a sunlit gallery where voices carried just far enough to be overheard.
"Is it true," she asked, fingers tracing the stem of a porcelain cup, "that my youngest sister has taken to collecting admirers?"
The women around her smiled politely, uncertain whether the remark was meant as jest.
Mireya tilted her head, expression gentle. "I only ask because people are talking. And talk has a way of becoming… unkind. I am just worried for my younger sister."
Then a pause.
"Of course," she continued lightly, "Lord Mirecourt has always enjoyed attention. Perhaps he mistook courtesy for invitation."
The framing was immaculate.
She did not accuse Isolde of impropriety.
She did not claim Raphael had been led astray.
She merely suggested imbalance—too much attention, too little restraint.
Concern and not condemnation.
The words slipped outward. It was carried on careful tongues. They changed shape as they traveled—growing sharper, more suggestive, as rumors always did.
By midday, the version Isolde heard was different entirely.
"…some say she encourages it—"
"…a habit of drawing men close—"
"…dangerous, for someone so young—"
Isolde listened without reaction as the final report reached her through a discreet attendant. She thanked the girl, dismissed her, and returned to her writing as if nothing had changed.
But the palace had shifted again.
This time, not toward curiosity.
But toward judgment towards her.
Marcus heard the rumor before Isolde did.
He heard it in the tightening of voices, in the way guards glanced toward the inner corridors, in the quiet satisfaction he recognized too well—the satisfaction of people who believed they had found weakness.
By the time Isolde summoned him, his patience was already threadbare.
"This ends now!" he said the moment the doors closed behind them. "She's testing how far she can go."
Isolde did not look up from her desk. "She already knows."
"She's undermining you!" Marcus continued. "Not politically but socially. That's more dangerous."
"Yes, it is." She replied calmly.
"And you're letting it stand." Marcus' anger was to the roof.
Isolde finally set down her pen and looked at him. "For the moment, yes."
Marcus took a step forward, his restraint cracking just enough to reveal the steel beneath. "Give me permission. I will stop this."
She met his gaze steadily. "And how will you stop it?"
"I will confront her," he said. "Or her circle. Make it clear there are consequences."
"For what?" Isolde asked calmly. "Concern?"
Marcus clenched his jaw. "For slander."
"It isn't slander." Isolde replied. "Not openly. She had started the rumor due to concern for her younger sister and we cannot confront her for that."
He exhaled sharply. "That's a technicality."
"It's the how rumors are. It starts with a simple word, and it blows out of proportions when it spreads." Isolde said. "And more importantly—it's the trap."
Marcus stilled, recognizing the word.
"She wants me to react," Isolde continued. "To appear defensive. To make this about my behavior rather than perception of others."
"And if it spreads?" Marcus pressed.
Isolde rose and crossed the room, stopping just short of him. "Then we let it spread until it collapses under its own weight."
His eyes searched her face. "You're asking me to do nothing?"
"No," Isolde said softly. "I'm asking you to hold the line."
Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow.
At last, Marcus nodded once. "Very well."
But the tension did not leave him. It coiled tighter instead.
Isolde saw this and walked towards him. She lightly held his hands and stared straight into his eyes calmly.
"This is how the inside of the palace works." Isolde said with a soothing voice, trying to calm Marcus' rage. "I have lived being invisible trying to evade this things. But now that I have shown myself regularly, involved myself in relief aid and joining the social season, I have anticipated this much will come my way. And I am prepared for this."
Marcus' inner rage gad dissipated after Isolde's calm voice.
"I do not understand how to protect you from social slanders like this." he said with a defeated voice. "It pains me to see you being slandered like this while I am powerless."
"I do not expect you to." she replied. "I expect you to protect me from external forces. That is what you do best. And just being by my side gives me peace of mind."
Isolde cupped Marcus' cheeks and saw that he still felt down with being powerless with this king of attack. She could not help but see him as cute.
She pulled his face closely and planted a kiss on his lips. Marcus' body that was tensed before relaxed instantly with contact.
His arms automatically encircled her waist and scooped her up and pushed her on the desk.
The kiss escalated to a more intense intimacy.
Marcus' kisses trained down from Isolde's lips to her neck and then her cleavage. A button or two was unbuttoned with his skillful hands.
They both were stressed and this intimate contact had made them release tension in their bodies.
"Ahh, M-Marcus…" Isolde moaned.
Marcus broke away from contact after hearing her moan.
"I-I'm sorry," he apologized. "I know this is not the place to do this."
"No need to apologize." Isolde sat on the desk and buttoned up the buttons that were undone by him. "I-I was also carried away with the mood as well."
They both blushed awkwardly.
As Isolde turned back to her desk, Marcus glanced toward the corridor beyond—the space Raphael moved through so easily.
If this were not a battle of force that he could easily win.
Then someone else would fight it.
Raphael heard the rumor and smiled.
Not because it amused him, but because it was predictable.
He did not confront Princess Mireya. He did not deny anything publicly. He did not defend Isolde with declarations that would only lend the story weight.
He did something far simpler.
He reframed desire.
At a luncheon where speculation buzzed like static, Raphael leaned back in his chair and said, conversationally, "If the princess truly encouraged attention, wouldn't there be more than one man foolish enough to approach her?"
Laughter followed—light but dismissive.
Later, to a different group, he remarked, "People mistake silence for invitation. It's usually the opposite. Isn't that right?"
The implication drifted outward.
By evening, the tone had changed.
"…perhaps he embarrassed himself—"
"…seemed it was one-sided from Lord Mirecourt's—"
"…hardly her highness' fault—"
Raphael never named Mireya.
But when someone did, he only smiled faintly and said, "I imagine it's difficult, having expectations unmet."
That was all.
The rest happened on its own.
Across the hall, Marcus watched the shift with narrowed eyes.
He saw it—the way tension eased, the way judgment softened into pity. He felt the strange dissonance of a threat dissolving without confrontation.
Raphael passed him then, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.
"Held your line I see." Raphael murmured, voice low.
Marcus turned, surprised despite himself. "You overstepped."
Raphael met his gaze evenly. "No, I redirected the rumors."
Marcus studied him for a long moment, then said, "You enjoy this."
Raphael's smile faded. "No, I do not. But I endure it."
Their eyes locked.
"Is it because of her highness?" Marcus asked quietly.
Raphael did not answer directly. "Because no one else should bleed for a lie."
Marcus exhaled slowly, tension easing just a fraction.
Across the room, Isolde observed the aftermath—subtle, contained, and effective.
The rumor had not been denied.
It had been emptied.
She closed her eyes briefly, understanding settling into place.
This was not recklessness.
This was precision.
And for the first time, Isolde Lysoria allowed herself to consider—not the man Raphael was in the light of salons and laughter—but the one he became when things turned sharp.
The one who chose to act, quietly.
For her.
The alignment did not announce itself.
It emerged the way pressure does—quietly, in the space where two forces realize they are pushing against the same wall from different sides.
Marcus found Raphael near the western colonnade as dusk settled over the palace. The air carried the scent of stone cooling after sun, and the last of the courtiers drifted away toward dinner, leaving the passage unusually bare.
Raphael stood with his back to the balustrade, hands loosely clasped, expression composed.
Marcus stopped a few paces away.
"You anticipated the turn." Marcus said. It was not a question.
Raphael inclined his head. "It was inevitable."
"Not to me." Marcus replied.
Raphael studied him briefly. "That's because you look for impact and not the momentum."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Momentum kills just as cleanly."
"Sometimes it does." Raphael agreed. "But it usually kills the wrong thing."
Silence settled, dense and watchful.
Marcus broke it. "You didn't ask permission."
"This again?" Raphael did not flinch. "I think I didn't need to. This is to help her highness."
Marcus took another step forward—close enough now that protocol would have noticed if anyone were watching. "You're moving around her highness without her command."
Raphael met his gaze steadily. "No. I'm moving around what moves toward her highness. Those words that can be a threat to her."
The distinction hung between them.
Marcus considered the man in front of him—unarmed, unarmored, yet unsettlingly confident. He did not see arrogance. He saw calculation tempered by restraint.
"You're dangerous," Marcus said flatly.
Raphael's lips curved, just slightly. "So are you."
A breath passed.
Marcus exhaled slowly. "If you misjudge—"
"I won't," Raphael replied.
"You don't get to be certain." Marcus replied in a flat tone.
Raphael's gaze flicked, briefly, toward the inner corridors that led to Isolde's chambers. "I get to be careful."
Marcus followed the look, then returned his attention to Raphael. Something in his expression shifted—not trust, not approval, but acknowledgment.
"You hold the line." Raphael said quietly. "I won't cross it. Not until her highness tells me to."
"You are expecting her to?" Marcus asked with guard.
"We do not know the possibilities." Raphael shrugged.
Marcus studied him for another long moment. Then he nodded once.
"Then we're clear." Marcus said. "I will hold the line, and you will not cross it."
"Clear enough." Raphael replied. "Until her highness tells me to."
He smiled sweetly that it irritated Marcus.
They parted without ceremony, neither conceding ground, both understanding something essential:
They were not allies.
But they were no longer obstacles to each other.
And for now, that was enough.
In Princess Mireya's outer palace chambers.
She did not break anything.
She did not throw goblets, tear letters, or lash out at the attendants who lingered nervously near the door. She dismissed them with a gentle word and waited until the latch clicked shut.
Then she stood alone in her sitting room and stared at the wall.
The rumor had died.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
It had simply… emptied.
She replayed the day in her mind, the way the court had turned—not against Isolde, as she had intended, but toward sympathy. Toward indulgence. Toward interest.
And worst of all—toward pity.
Pity for Mireya.
She pressed her fingers against her temple, breathing carefully.
How had it slipped?
She had been cautious. She had framed the concern perfectly. She had offered no accusation that could be challenged.
And yet—
"Lord Mirecourt," she whispered, the name bitter on her tongue.
She had underestimated him.
Not his charm—that had been obvious. Not his presence—that had been expected.
But his discipline.
He had not confronted her.
Had not corrected her.
Had not defended Isolde outright.
He had simply made Mireya's interest visible.
And visible need was weakness.
Mireya sank into a chair, composure finally cracking. Her reflection stared back at her from a polished surface—still beautiful, still composed, but with something strained behind the eyes.
She had wanted Raphael because he was admired. He was witty to even redirect the rumor she has created.
Now she wanted him because he had chosen someone else.
And she hated that.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown. "I won't be ignored," she said softly.
The words were not a threat.
They were a promise.
If subtlety had failed, she would escalate.
And next time, she would not aim at rumor.
She would aim at leverage.
"Lord Raphael Mirecourt." Princess Mireya said. "You will be my first royal consort, that is a certainty."
Back at Isolde's office, she learned of Mireya's failure before she learned of her anger.
That, too, was telling.
The palace quieted in the way it did after a storm—debris invisible, damage subtle, but the air noticeably clearer. Whispers softened. Eyes turned curious again rather than sharp.
Isolde sat at her desk as evening settled, reviewing reports she already understood.
Raphael Mirecourt's name appeared three times.
Not in accusation.
In context.
She closed the ledger and leaned back, fingers steepled.
Marcus stood near the window, posture relaxed but alert. "The pressure's gone," he said.
"Yes. For now." Isolde replied.
Marcus hesitated. "He was effective."
"I agree." she replied.
"And restrained." he added.
"Yes." she said.
Marcus glanced at her. "That troubles me."
She smiled faintly. "But it reassures me."
Marcus studied her expression carefully. "You're considering him?"
"I am." Isolde said without pretense. "He will be a good ally in my court."
Silence followed—heavy, evaluative.
"You trust him?" Marcus asked.
"No." Isolde replied. "But I understand him."
Marcus frowned. "That's worse."
She rose and crossed the room, stopping beside him at the window. "Trust is for people who ask for it," she said. "Raphael hasn't."
"He wants something." Marcus said.
"Yes." Isolde said.
Isolde encircled her arms on his waist and rested her head on his broad back. Marcus held her hands gently.
Marcus's voice was low. "We all want something."
Isolde hugged him more tightly. "That's why I'm going to give him something to do."
Marcus stiffened slightly. "You're going to test him?"
"Yes." she replied.
"How?" Marcus turned around and looked at her intently.
She reached for the crease between his brows that usually tense when he is agitated like this. "I will place him near a problem he did not create," she said. "And see whether he contains it… or claims it."
Marcus watched her closely. "And if he fails?"
"Then I lose a tool that could have been useful." Isolde replied calmly. "Not a man."
"And if he succeeds?" Marcus asked curiously.
Isolde met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "Then I will know he can be trusted with worse stuff to come."
Marcus said nothing.
But something in his stance shifted—not resistance, not approval.
It was readiness.
Isolde kissed him once on the lips and dismissed him shortly after. She remained alone in her office, the palace settling into night around her.
She walked to the window and looked out at the city, lights scattered like quiet possibilities.
Raphael Mirecourt had acted without permission.
He had protected her without being asked.
Now, she would see whether he could do so when the cost was real.
If he wishes to stand beside my throne, she thought,
let me see what he does when I place him in danger.
The decision settled, precise and unyielding.
Tomorrow, the test for him will begin.