(R-18 Mature Scenes)
Princess Mireya preferred preparation to performance.
The rehearsal hall smelled faintly of beeswax and pressed linen, the air alive with the low murmur of servants testing arrangements and the soft scrape of furniture being nudged into precise alignment. Mireya moved through it all with calm authority, a silk-clad figure whose smile never faltered as she paused, adjusted, approved.
"Move the second table half a step inward," she said, not raising her voice. "Yes. There. That will do."
A servant nodded and obeyed at once.
Mireya's eyes traced the layout with satisfaction. Balance was everything. Where a guest sat determined who spoke to whom, who overheard what, whose absence became conspicuous. She had learned that lesson early—learned it from watching others pretend not to learn it at all.
She stopped near the dais where the evening's performances would take place. A harpist plucked a tentative chord, the sound lingering like a held breath.
"Later," Mireya said. "That piece should be later."
The harpist blinked. "Later, Your Highness?"
"Yes. After the second course. When people are relaxed. When they're listening."
The harpist nodded and adjusted her notes.
Mireya turned away, satisfied.
Everything was falling into place.
It had taken weeks of careful suggestion—never demands, never commands. A word here, a compliment there, a gentle nudge toward what seemed like a good idea. By the time the final arrangements were made, no one would remember whose idea they had been.
That was the point.
She paused by a long table where name cards were being laid out, fingers hovering for a moment over one particular place before she shifted it—just slightly.
Isolde's seat.
Not banished or shamed. It was simply… off-center.
It was visible, but clearly unsupported.
Perfect.
A lady-in-waiting approached, expression attentive. "Shall I inform Lord Mirecourt of the revised program?"
Mireya smiled.
"Yes," she said. "Do so."
The lady hesitated. "He hasn't been… assigned a role yet."
"I know," Mireya replied lightly. "That's what makes it more interesting."
As the lady hurried off, Mireya allowed herself a quiet exhale.
Raphael Mirecourt.
The court darling. The man everyone wanted but no one held.
Mireya's fingers curled at her side.
She had watched him for years—his ease, his laughter, the way rooms seemed to soften around him. Men like that did not belong on the periphery forever. They chose to be a royal consort eventually. Or they were chosen to be one.
And she intended to be the one who chose him.
Isolde was just an incidental factor.
A convenient contrast. A younger sister whose quiet presence had drew too much attention without knowing how to wield it. Mireya did not hate her because hatred required effort.
But Isolde stood in her way.
Not because she competed for Raphael's attention.
But because Raphael looked at her.
That was what Mireya could not forgive.
This banquet would fix that.
By the end of the evening, Raphael would understand where power truly rested—and who was prepared to claim him openly, proudly, and without apology.
Mireya smiled to herself.
He would not refuse. He can't.
Isolde learned of the changes the way she learned most things now—not through declarations, but through pattern.
She stood by the window of her chambers as the afternoon waned, reviewing a short list Corvin had delivered earlier. It contains names, movements, and small adjustments that meant nothing on their own.
But together, they formed a shape.
Seating revised—again.
Allies placed at courteous distances.
A performance shifted to the heart of the evening.
Isolde did not need anyone to spell it out.
She imagined the room as Mireya intended it: the gentle funneling of attention, the way eyes would drift naturally toward her, the subtle expectation that she would respond—to smile, to deflect, to justify her presence.
Concern masquerading as civility.
She closed the ledger and set it aside.
"Elegant," she murmured.
Marcus stood nearby, arms folded, expression dark. "It's a cage made of silk."
"I agree." she replied.
"And you're walking into it." he said.
Isolde met his gaze. "I already have, even if I don't intend to."
Marcus frowned. "She wants you to falter or to react."
"She wants me to matter in her grand scheme." Isolde corrected softly. "And on her terms."
He studied her face. "And you're letting her set the stage."
"Yes." Isolde replied. "Only for now."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "There are easier ways to learn who stands with you."
"I'm not looking for those who would stands with me." Isolde replied. "I'm looking for who moves when I don't."
She turned back to the window, watching a pair of attendants cross the courtyard below. "Mireya believes attention is currency. She thinks if she controls the evening, she controls the narrative."
"And does she?" Isolde's lips curved faintly. "Only if no one interrupts."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "You're expecting him to."
"I'm allowing the possibility of his involvement." Isolde said. "That's different."
He considered that in silence.
"What about Mireya's endgame?" Marcus asked at last.
Isolde did not answer immediately.
She reached for the cup of tea cooling at her side and took a measured sip. "She intends to ask for something." she said finally. "And in a public setting like the Autumn Banquet."
Marcus's gaze sharpened. "What do you think it is?"
"A man." Isolde replied. "I very irresistible one at that." she smiled.
Marcus followed her line of thought with a soldier's precision. "Then it is Mirecourt, I presume."
"Yes." Isolde nodded in agreement.
Marcus exhaled slowly. "She thinks he'll accept her proposal?"
"She thinks he won't dare refuse," Isolde said. "Since it will be in public with many eyes watching."
Because refusal would be read as insult. Because refusal would embarrass her. Because refusal would reveal preference.
Isolde turned from the window and met Marcus's eyes. "This banquet isn't about just me."
Marcus was silent for a long moment.
"It's about him," he said.
"And what he chooses to do when he is pressed." Isolde agreed. "Mireya sees me as a hindrance in gaining Raphael, and not as a threat. She will be very wrong, that dear sister of mine."
There was a spark in Isolde's eyes as she smiled.
Back at Mireya's palace, she had prepared her private remarks with care.
She stood before the mirror in her chambers, attendants moving around her in quiet efficiency as they adjusted her gown—a deep autumn red that caught the light like polished wine. Her reflection met her steadily, confident, assured.
No one would doubt her.
She practiced the words once more, softly, as the last pin was set.
"Lord Mirecourt," she murmured. "Your presence has long been a delight to the court. It is time, I think, that such gifts be given purpose."
A pause.
"Will you accept the honor of standing beside me as my first royal consort?"
It was perfect.
Public enough to be meaningful. Gracious enough to appear generous. Framed as honor and not as a demand.
Refusal would be unthinkable.
Mireya's fingers tightened briefly in the fabric of her skirt.
She had watched Raphael with Isolde—watched the way his attention lingered, the way his smile softened when he spoke to her sister. It irritated her more than she cared to admit.
Isolde did not know how to claim.
Mireya did.
She would show them all what decisive power looked like.
Elsewhere in the palace, Isolde stood alone, the quiet of evening settling around her like a cloak. Corvin's earlier words echoed in her mind—It's meant to look kind. That's what worries me.
She understood now what lay beneath Mireya's kindness.
Possession.
Isolde rested her hands on the back of a chair, steadying herself.
Mireya would try to turn the room into a witness. To force a choice under chandeliers and silk and applause.
Isolde would not interfere.
Not yet.
Because the true measure of a man was not who he favored when offered comfort—
—but who he protected when silence demanded courage.
She closed her eyes briefly.
The trap was set for her and for Raphael.
And the evening had not yet begun.
By dusk, the palace had learned the rhythm of anticipation.
It was not loud. It did not announce itself with proclamation or scandal. It moved the way air did when a storm gathered—slowly, insistently, changing how people stood and spoke and chose their words.
Isolde felt it as she moved through the eastern galleries. Conversation dipped when she passed, then rose again in softened tones. She caught fragments—carefully harmless phrases that carried just enough weight to bruise.
"…it will be quite the evening—"
"…Princess Mireya has been meticulous—"
"…I hear Lord Mirecourt will be present—"
Isolde did not react. She did not need to. The trap did not require her participation to work; it only required her presence.
At the far end of the gallery, Marcus waited. He fell into step beside her without a word, his stride matched to hers, his attention outward and alert. He did not touch her. He did not crowd her. He simply existed in the space where danger would pass first.
"They're warming up for the banquet." he said quietly. "They tongues are quite loose."
"Yes." Isolde agreed.
"They want a reaction from you before the banquet." Marcus continued. "Something small. A denial maybe or a correction."
"And if I give it to them." Isolde replied, "They will learn exactly where to press. And that I won't give them."
Marcus glanced at her profile. "You're certain about this?"
"I am certain." she nodded. Then, after a breath, "But certainty doesn't mean comfort."
His jaw tightened. "I don't like that she's using you as contrast. You are better than her."
"But others do not know that. Not yet." Isolde said. "She wants Raphael to see the difference between her and me. She thinks that this will make him choose her."
Marcus's eyes darkened. "She wants to claim him, then."
"That is correct." Isolde replied. "And not just claim him in her court, she wants him to be her first royal consort."
"And you're letting her try?" Marcus asked in curiosity.
Isolde stopped near a tall window overlooking the inner courtyard. Night had begun to settle, lanterns flickering awake below. She turned to face Marcus fully.
"I'm letting him choose who he should chose to serve." she said. "Under pressure."
Marcus searched her face. "And if he chooses Mireya?"
"Then I learn he values safety over integrity,. Isolde replied. "And I move on."
Marcus studied her for a long moment, then nodded once. "Even if you don't get him, you have me."
"I know." Isolde said softly with a smile. "You will always be by my side to protect me."
They stood there a moment longer, the palace breathing around them. Then Isolde moved on, leaving the tension where it belonged—contained, not denied.
Isolde dismissed her attendants earlier than usual that night.
She did it herself—no raised voice, no impatience. A word here, a nod there, gratitude offered with sincerity. It was important that the dismissal looked ordinary. Anything abrupt would be noted.
When the doors to her chambers finally closed, the silence that followed felt… occupied.
Isolde crossed the room without haste and paused near the window. The city beyond was a scatter of amber lights, distant and steady. She listened.
There it was.
Not movement, exactly. The absence of it. The way sound failed to travel fully through the corridor beyond her door. Someone standing too still just outside the door.
Marcus noticed it at the same moment she did.
He did not turn toward the door. He did not reach for a weapon. He merely adjusted his stance, placing himself where his presence would be felt even through wood and stone.
"They've grown careless." he murmured.
"They are still watching. Their master wants additional proof." Isolde replied. "That you are diminished."
Marcus's mouth curved into a humorless smile. "They always do."
Isolde turned from the window and approached him. She stopped within arm's reach, close enough that the watchers—if they were listening—would hear the subtle shift of fabric, the soft intake of breath.
She reached for his hand.
It was not sudden. Not dramatic. Her fingers slid into his palm with quiet intention, grounding rather than demanding. Marcus stiffened for a heartbeat, then closed his hand around hers, firm and warm.
"They want to see you reduced to a bed of a royal." Isolde said softly. "A disgraced general kept by a quiet princess."
Marcus lowered his head just enough that his voice would not carry. "And what do you want them to see?"
Isolde lifted her free hand and rested it against his chest, feeling the steady strength beneath cloth and bone. "That you are unashamed." she said. "That nothing has been taken from you. That you chose this, to be here with me."
Marcus's breath changed—deepened and slowed. He raised his other hand and cupped her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw with careful restraint.
The kiss came without urgency.
Slow, controlled, and deliberate.
It was not hunger that drove it, but reassurance—the quiet claiming of space that said I am here, and I am whole. Isolde leaned into it, allowing the contact without surrendering to it, her hands settling at his waist, fingers pressing lightly as if to anchor them both.
"Hmmm…" Isolde let out a light moan, just right for those outside to hear.
Beyond the door, something shifted. A faint scuff of movement. Someone adjusting position.
Isolde did not break the kiss.
Marcus drew back first, just enough to rest his forehead against hers. "They'll report this for sure."
"Then let them," Isolde whispered. "They need to report back to their master after all."
His thumb brushed her cheek once more, reverent. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"Yes," Isolde replied. "But not alone."
They stood like that for a moment longer, breath mingling, heat acknowledged but contained. The bed nearby remained untouched—present and tempting.
Marcus scooped her up with precise movement and lifter her to the bed.
Once there, they continued their intimate actions. Their kisses had grown deeper, wanting. Their breaths hitched up with the heat.
"Ahhh… Marcus." Isolde have a moan.
Marcus' body started to heat up. His actions became fiercer, more wanting.
His kisses started to trail even further down, somewhere he did not dare to pass through in the past.
Isolde's light night gown slipped low from her chest revealing her fully for Marcus to see.
"Beautiful," he whispered.
Isolde blushed with the compliment.
Marcus did not stop with just at her cleavage where he usually does. He trailed his kisses farther down.
He reached one of her peaks and sucked intensely.
"Ahhhh…" Isolde moaned loudly with the new sensation.
Marcus did not stop at that, his hands started to trail from her ankles to her knees, and then it found themselves to her inner thighs and in between.
"M-Marcus…" Isolde called him quite amorously that it made him lose rationality.
His finger slid inside, and it made Isolde's head fly back in surprise.
"Ahhh…" her moans were getting wilder, fiercer. She was wanting release.
"Don't hold back." Marcus whispered to her ear.
His words had become her undoing. Her body convulsed in pleasure.
They have stayed in bed for a while and caught their breaths. The noise that they have made could have been more satisfying to report for the watchers outside.
Marcus saw Isolde after their intimate moment. He had known she was beautiful the moment he saw her face unobstructed. But now seeing her flushed under him sent his body into overdrive. And looking at the marks, he unintentionally made on her chest made him want her more.
He pulled all the patience and restraint he could muster in him.
Finally, Marcus stepped back a fraction, reclaiming distance with visible effort. "Until tomorrow." he said.
"Tomorrow." Isolde echoed.
Outside the door, the silence retreated.
Later, when the palace settled into its shallow sleep, Isolde lay awake.
Marcus had taken his place on the far side of the room, close enough to hear her breathe, far enough to honor the restraint they had chosen. The lamps were low, shadows long and gentle against the walls.
Isolde stared at the canopy above her and let the day replay itself—Mireya's careful arrangements, Corvin's quiet worry, the way Marcus had held her without breaking.
She thought of Raphael.
Not as the court saw him—laughing, effortless, admired—but as the man he would have to be to pass what was coming. A man who could read a room and refuse to be owned by it. A man who would recognize a trap not as insult, but as invitation to act.
She did not know what he would choose when the time comes.
That uncertainty was the point.
Across the room, Marcus shifted slightly. "You're still awake."
"Yes." Isolde replied.
Then a pause.
"Do you want me closer?" he asked.
Isolde considered the question honestly. "That would be… comforting."
Without any questions, Marcus crossed the room and laid beside Isolde in bed. She creeped beside him instantly, resting her cheek on his chest.
The warmth comforted her instantly. Many things have been moving in the palace lately and she never knew she had been this tensed, not until she felt her body relax beside Marcus in his arms.
The night stretched, unhurried. Somewhere beyond her chambers, servants whispered and plotted and listened for sounds that would confirm their assumptions.
They would hear nothing more.
Isolde closed her eyes at last, her resolve settling into place.
Mireya would have her stage.
The court would have its spectacle.
And Raphael would be forced to decide who he was when choosing became dangerous.
Isolde slept with the uncertainty that was coming, but the warming touch beside her gave comfort she never thought she needed.
The banquet loomed.
And the trap, now fully shaped, waited for its moment to spring.