Morning court did not begin with tension. It rarely did.
It began with ceremony—measured steps across polished stone, the soft whisper of silk, the collective pause that preceded every formal declaration. Isolde stood among her sisters, posture composed, hands folded, gaze unfocused enough to appear inattentive. It was a practiced stillness. One her father had taught her when she was small and frightened and learning how to survive rooms that wanted something from her.
The chamber quieted as the court herald stepped forward.
"By decree of Her Imperial Majesty," he announced, voice carrying easily, "Princess Mireya Lysoria is granted ceremonial authority to oversee the Autumn Banquet of this year."
A ripple passed through the room—light surprise, quickly smoothed into approval.
Isolde did not turn her head. She did not need to.
But she felt it anyway.
The subtle realignment of attention. The way several courtiers shifted their stance toward her sister. The brief pause before applause—just long enough to calculate whether approval was expected or advantageous.
Then the clapping came. Polite, warm, and controlled.
Isolde lifted her eyes at last.
Across the chamber, Princess Mireya Lysoria accepted the acknowledgment with practiced grace. She smiled—not broadly, not triumphantly, but with the careful satisfaction of someone who had finally been seen. Mireya inclined her head toward the throne, hands clasped, posture flawless.
She wore confidence well.
Too well.
Isolde watched the people around her sister instead of Mireya herself. The ones who leaned closer. The ones who murmured quick congratulations. The ones who waited to see who would move first.
A ceremonial role meant visibility. And visibility meant relevance.
And relevance was a kind of currency in the social arena.
Morning court concluded and Marcus came to be by Isolde's side coming from the consort gallery where consorts seat when court was in session.
Marcus shifted beside Isolde, just enough to signal attention. "She's positioning herself," he murmured, voice low enough that only Isolde could hear.
"Yes." Isolde replied quietly. "She has to."
Marcus's gaze remained on Mireya. "She still has no consort. This is how she reminds the court that she still matters."
Isolde did not answer immediately. Her eyes followed the edges of the room, noting who avoided Mireya's gaze entirely. Who did not applaud as readily. Who had already decided where this would lead.
"It's not about reminding," Isolde said at last. "It's about proving."
Marcus glanced at her. "Proving what?"
Isolde's lips curved faintly. "That she can shape a room."
The announcement concluded. The court shifted. Conversation resumed in low waves.
Isolde stepped back as protocol dictated, blending once more into the expected pattern—quiet, observant, unremarkable.
But the shape of the day had changed.
The shaded walkway behind the eastern gardens was one of the few places in the palace where no one lingered without reason.
Isolde chose it deliberately.
The air smelled of damp stone and early autumn leaves, the faint sweetness of crushed petals underfoot. She had barely slowed her pace when footsteps matched hers from behind—light, familiar, unguarded.
"Did you hear it too?" a voice asked softly.
Isolde did not turn right away. She smiled.
"Hello, Corvin." Isolde gestured.
Prince Corvin Solaryn fell into step beside her without ceremony. No bow. No title. Just the easy alignment of someone who had walked beside her since childhood, when corridors were mazes and secrets were survival.
"I did," Corvin said. "Everyone did. But not everyone heard the same thing."
Isolde glanced at him now. He looked younger than he was—slight, unassuming, dressed plainly compared to his sisters. The court rarely noticed him unless he stood directly in front of them. Even then, they forgot him quickly.
That was his greatest protection.
"What did you hear?" she asked.
Corvin hesitated, eyes scanning the path ahead. "That out sister Princess Mireya has been busy."
Isolde waited.
"She's revised the seating plan three times," Corvin continued. "Not dramatically. Just enough that people started asking why." He paused. "Certain guests were encouraged to attend who don't usually bother with seasonal events. And a performance—poetry, I think—was moved closer to the center of the evening."
He did not name who told him. He never did.
Isolde understood anyway.
Corvin spent his days where the palace forgot itself—in libraries, in gardens, in corridors servants assumed were safe to speak in. Pages liked him. Junior clerks spoke freely around him. Guards relaxed when he passed. He listened without seeming to.
And he remembered.
"People are being placed where they'll be noticed," Corvin said quietly. "Not where they belong."
The words were careful. Observational. But his tone betrayed him—just slightly.
It was concern.
Isolde slowed her steps, enough that he had to do the same. "You're worried for me?" she said.
Corvin exhaled. "Of course, I am."
He glanced at her, brows drawn together. "I don't like how neat it is."
Isolde studied his face. There was no fear there. No panic. Only the familiar tension of someone who saw danger coming and knew better than to shout.
"Do you know what she intends to do?" Isolde asked.
Corvin shook his head. "Not exactly. But it's meant to look accidental."
That was enough.
They walked in silence for several steps, the sound of water trickling faintly from a hidden fountain.
"Do you want me to keep watching?" Corvin asked at last.
Isolde stopped.
She turned to face him fully now, the garden's dappled light catching in her hair. For a moment, the princess vanished, leaving only the girl who had once hidden with him behind tapestries and shared stolen fruit when the palace felt too large.
"Yes," Isolde said softly. "But not to interfere."
Corvin nodded, unsurprised.
"Just to notice." she added.
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "I already am."
Isolde returned the smile—brief, genuine. "I know."
He hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing her sleeve in a gesture so familiar it barely registered as contact. "Be careful," he said.
"I will." Isolde replied. "And you too."
"I always am." Corvin winked.
It was not a promise.
It was an understanding.
Marcus did not like stillness when it was chosen.
He preferred it when it was earned—after a threat had been neutralized, after lines had been drawn and held. Watching danger approach without moving went against every instinct he possessed.
Which was why Isolde's refusal unsettled him.
The doors to her chambers closed softly behind them, sealing away the court's murmur. Isolde crossed the room and took her seat at the small writing desk by the window, the late morning light slanting across polished wood.
Marcus remained standing.
"She's isolating you," he said without preamble.
Isolde dipped her pen into ink. "She's trying."
Marcus's gaze sharpened. "That's not the same thing."
"No," Isolde agreed. "But the intent is."
He paced once, then stopped. "Seating isolation is a classic tactic. Pair it with public concern, and you get humiliation without accusation."
"Yes, that's correct." she said.
Marcus turned to face her fully. "Then why aren't you stopping it?"
Isolde set the pen down and folded her hands. "Because stopping it tells her exactly what I fear."
"And letting it happen tells the court you're vulnerable." Marcus said.
Isolde met his eyes. "No. It tells them I'm patient. That I am not the one to retaliate."
Marcus frowned. "Patience doesn't protect your reputation."
"But reaction endangers it," Isolde replied calmly.
He took a breath, visibly restraining himself. "You could counter-host. Or decline. Or adjust the guest list quietly. Any of those would neutralize the attempt."
"That would teach me nothing," Isolde said.
Marcus stilled.
She rose and crossed the room, stopping just before him. She took his hand and held it gently. "Mireya wants me to move," she continued. "She wants me to reveal which threats matter enough to answer."
"And you won't?" he asked.
"No," Isolde said. "I want to see who moves when I do not."
Understanding dawned slowly in Marcus's expression.
"This isn't about Mireya," he said.
"No." she replied.
"You're watching the room." he added.
"Yes." she said.
Marcus studied her face—the calm resolve, the absence of doubt. He recognized the moment for what it was.
It was selection.
"If something goes wrong—" he began.
"You'll act," Isolde said gently. "I know you would."
He exhaled and pulled her into his arms. "You're asking me to hold the line."
"Yes." she replied.
"And trust that someone else will step forward." he added.
Isolde did not answer immediately.
Isolde rested her head on his chest hearing his beating heart. "Not trust," she said at last. "Just to observe if he really is an asset to get for my court."
Marcus watched her for a long moment, then nodded once.
"Very well," he said.
Isolde added, "Stay close."
"I always do," Marcus replied.
They were starting to get used to close proximity to each other. Isolde knew that Marcus was a little hot blooded, especially if it was her safety that was at stake, physically or socially.
Isolde was enjoying this small moments when they could feel each other's warmth, she was afraid that she would get used to his embrace that she would be unwilling to let go of him when the time the contract ends.
Marcus was also yearning for this small moments alone with her, whether he admits it or not. He had promised to protect her as per their contract and he plans to uphold it until the end of the term. But he is now wavering, if he really wants this to end.
And now Princess Mireya's trap had been set.
And she had chosen to walk into it.
The afternoon settled into the palace like a held breath.
Isolde remained at her desk long after Marcus departed, the quill tracing careful lines that required little thought. She wrote what she already knew—names, schedules, the innocuous language of administration. It was not the work that occupied her, but the waiting.
She listened.
Footsteps passed beyond the door. Laughter rose and fell somewhere down the corridor. The faint echo of a harp drifted from a distant chamber, a practice run for an evening yet to come. Everything sounded normal.
Which meant nothing was.
Isolde closed the ledger and leaned back, letting her gaze drift to the window. The city beyond was a study in motion—vendors calling, banners shifting, the slow churn of lives that would never brush the edges of the throne yet would always feel its weight.
Reaction gives them my outline, she thought. Stillness lets them reveal theirs.
Her father's voice came to her unbidden, as it often did in moments like this. When you cannot see the blade, step aside. When you can, stand still. People cut themselves on certainty.
Mireya wanted a response. Even a refusal would suffice. A single adjustment to seating, a polite amendment to the program—any sign that Isolde felt the pressure.
She would give none.
Instead, she reached for a clean sheet and began drafting a reply that said nothing at all.
The reply was a masterpiece of courtesy.
Isolde read it twice before sealing it.
Princess Mireya Lysoria,
I am pleased to accept your gracious invitation to the Autumn Banquet. I look forward to the evening you have prepared for the court and trust it will reflect the season's abundance and harmony.
—Princess Isolde Lysoria
No conditions.
No requests.
No corrections.
She pressed her signet into the wax and watched the impression cool. When the attendant arrived to take it, Isolde handed the letter over with a calm nod.
"See that it is delivered promptly," she said.
"Yes, Your Highness."
As the door closed, Isolde allowed herself one measured breath.
The court would read this as vulnerability.
Mireya would read it as triumph.
Neither would be entirely wrong.
By evening, the palace had begun to hum.
Isolde moved through a reception gallery on her way to a minor engagement, her presence noted, her absence weighed. She felt eyes follow her—not with hostility, but with curiosity sharpened by anticipation.
A pair of ladies paused their conversation as she passed.
"…she accepted," one murmured, not quietly enough.
"Yes, without amendments," the other replied. "Bold. Or foolish."
Isolde did not look back.
At the edge of the gallery, she caught Corvin's reflection in a tall mirror—standing near a pillar, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed. He did not approach. He did not signal. But his eyes met hers in the glass for the briefest moment.
A question.
Isolde gave the slightest inclination of her head.
Keep watching.
Corvin's gaze softened. He returned to his quiet vigilance, already blending into the background again.
Across the room, Marcus stood where he always did—present without looming, alert without display. She felt the tension in him like a drawn wire. He was holding because she had asked him to. Because he trusted her judgment even when it ran counter to his own.
She wondered who else might be watching.
Not everyone who mattered stood close.
Night fell early, the season was pressing inward.
Isolde stood alone by her window in her chambers once more, the city's lights flickering awake below. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, preparations for the banquet had already begun—tables measured, candles counted, places assigned with deliberate care.
Mireya would be pleased tonight. Confident and certain.
Isolde rested her palm against the cool glass.
If someone wishes to stand beside me, she thought, let them see the blade before it cuts.
She did not know precisely how the evening would unfold. That uncertainty was part of the design. But she knew this:
She would not be the first to move.
Tomorrow, the court would whisper. The next day, it would speculate. And somewhere in that narrowing space—between silence and spectacle—someone would decide what they wanted enough to act without instruction.
Isolde turned from the window and extinguished the lamp.
The invitation had been accepted.
The challenge stood.
And the room, at last, was ready to show its hand.