The palace had learned to speak softly.
Isolde felt it in the way footsteps slowed when she passed, in the way laughter shortened itself as if trimmed by invisible shears. Words did not stop—nothing so crude—but they bent, reshaped themselves, slid around her like water finding new channels.
She crossed the eastern corridor with measured pace, hands folded loosely before her, expression composed. The morning light slanted through high windows, catching the gold thread in banners that had been hung for the coming banquet. Autumn colors, rich and warm, meant to soften the eye.
They did not soften the waiting.
Two courtiers paused their conversation just ahead of her, heads inclining politely as she approached.
"Your Highness," one said. "We look forward to the evening Princess Mireya has prepared."
"So do I," Isolde replied, tone even.
It was a perfectly harmless exchange. It was also a test.
She passed them without a backward glance, feeling their eyes follow, measuring her response for something—anything—to take hold of. When none came, the silence that followed her felt heavier than a reprimand.
Marcus fell into step beside her a moment later. He did not speak at first. He did not need to.
"They're waiting," he said finally, low.
"Yes." she replied.
"They don't know for what." he added.
"That's the discomfort," Isolde replied. "Uncertainty needs resolution."
Marcus's gaze swept the corridor, marking guards, alcoves, the edges where sound carried too easily. "They think you're unaware."
Isolde's lips curved faintly. "They think I'm quiet."
They reached a junction where paths diverged—one leading toward the gardens, the other to the council antechamber. Isolde paused, then turned toward the gardens.
The air outside was cooler, the scent of leaves and damp stone a gentle contrast to the palace's polish. People were already there—nobles strolling, attendants adjusting lanterns, pages carrying trays that would soon be empty.
Isolde moved among them as if she belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.
Conversation rose and fell in her wake.
"…she hasn't responded at all—"
"…perhaps she intends to avoid the banquet—"
"…or perhaps she means to endure it—"
The word endure.
The word followed her like a shadow.
She did not correct it.
Endurance was what they expected of her. It was what made her safe to underestimate.
Marcus slowed, watching a cluster of guests whose attention lingered too long. "They're building a their own version of the story," he said.
"Yes," Isolde replied. "And they're running out of time to finish it."
In one of the salons, Raphael noticed the shift before anyone named it.
It came to him the way a draft did through an open door—cool, unmistakable, changing the shape of things without warning. He stood near a low table in one of the smaller salons, listening as a pair of ladies debated the merits of autumn wine with exaggerated seriousness.
"…it will be quite an evening," one said, smiling too carefully. "Princess Mireya has spared no effort."
"And Lord Mirecourt will attend, of course," the other added. "It would hardly be the same without him."
Raphael smiled, accepted the compliment with an inclination of his head, and said nothing.
The ladies moved on, satisfied. Their conversation left behind a residue he could taste.
Expectation.
He drifted toward the open archway that overlooked the inner court. Below, attendants practiced the careful choreography of arrival and departure, learning where to stand so they would be seen just enough. Raphael watched, cataloguing the patterns.
Seating that drew the eye.
Timings that gathered attention.
Silences placed where reaction would be expected.
He understood then that the banquet was not an event.
It was a mechanism.
A familiar name passed behind him—Princess Mireya—spoken with admiration, with curiosity, with something that sounded like certainty. His smile thinned.
Someone, somewhere, had decided he would be part of the evening's meaning.
That realization settled heavily.
He turned and nearly collided with Isolde.
She stood a polite distance away, as if she had always been there and he had simply failed to notice. Her presence was quiet but undeniable, the way a held breath was.
"My apologies," Raphael said, genuinely surprised.
"None needed," Isolde replied. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
They shared a moment of mutual courtesy—no flirtation, no audience-seeking warmth. It made the air between them feel sharper by contrast.
Raphael glanced past her, then back. "You're being discussed," he said lightly.
"As I have suspected," Isolde replied.
"Do you intend to disappoint them?" he asked with a smile.
Her gaze met his, steady. "I intend to attend the autumn banquet, if that is what you are asking."
That was all.
No denial. No reassurance. No invitation.
Raphael felt the room tilt, just slightly. He studied her more closely now—the calm of her posture, the absence of defensive motion. She looked like someone who had already made peace with what was coming.
Or someone who had decided not to intervene.
A dangerous distinction.
Raphael looked at Isolde with quite revere.
"Then I should go on my way, your highness." Raphael bowed and gestured for her hand.
Isolde slowly offered it, and he kissed its back gently. "It's nice meeting you, Lord Mirecourt."
As they parted, Raphael felt the weight of the evening settle onto his shoulders. Whatever Princess Mireya intended, it would not be small. And whatever Isolde intended—
She was letting it happen.
The library alcove was one of Prince Corvin's favored places—not because it was hidden, but because it was visible in the right way. People assumed safety in open spaces. They spoke freely among shelves and light, convinced that danger preferred corners.
Corvin waited until Isolde's steps echoed between the stacks before he spoke.
"The final arrangement has been decided." he said quietly.
She stopped beside him, fingers brushing the spine of a book she did not intend to read. "How so?"
He hesitated, then answered carefully. "The seating hasn't changed since yesterday. The program was finalized this morning. The poet has rehearsed twice."
Isolde closed her eyes briefly. "She's committed, our sister."
"Yes, she is." Prince Corvin said.
Prince Corvin watched her face, searching for a reaction that did not come. "There won't be a way to soften it once it begins."
"I know." Isolde replied.
He shifted his weight, concern edging closer to the surface. "People are already expecting something."
"They always are." Isolde said.
"Not like this," Prince Corvin said. "They're expecting you to—" He stopped, frowning. "For you to make a mistake and fail."
Isolde opened her eyes and looked at him then, truly looked. "Do you think I would?"
Corvin swallowed. "No," he said. "I think… I think you want to see who your ally can be when the time comes."
A quiet smile touched her lips. "You've been paying attention."
"I worry for you, sister." Corvin admitted. "That's not the same thing."
She reached out and squeezed his hand once—brief and grounding. "I know, but it is enough."
He nodded, the tension easing just a fraction. "Then you have a plan?"
"Yes, and you need not worry little brother." Isolde said while patting his head. "Thank you."
As she turned away, Corvin called softly, "Please be careful."
She glanced back over her shoulder. "I always am."
He knew better than to argue.
The library returned to its hush as Isolde moved on, the pieces aligned now with a clarity that felt almost merciful. The banquet would come. Mireya would make her move.
And the room would finally show who it belonged to.
Back at the palace, the light in Isolde's chambers had begun to tilt toward evening when Marcus asked the question he had been holding since dawn.
"When would I act?"
He stood near the table where maps were sometimes spread and never used, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back as if that alone could keep the tension contained. Isolde closed the shutters partway before answering, letting the room dim into something quieter.
"You will act when my safety is threatened." she said. "Or if I command it."
Marcus nodded once. Then he did not move.
Isolde watched the tension gather at the corners of his mouth, the small tell she had learned to read. Logic had settled the matter. It had not eased it.
"You're holding too much." she said gently.
Marcus exhaled through his nose. "I don't like watching you walk into danger."
She crossed the space between them without haste. When she stopped in front of him, the closeness changed the room. Isolde reached up and smoothed the crease between his brows with her thumb, a familiar gesture that carried no ceremony.
"You're not just watching." she murmured. "You're standing by my side."
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again, disciplined. "But that doesn't make it easier."
"No." she agreed. "But it makes it necessary."
Isolde rose onto her toes and pressed a brief kiss to his lips—soft, intentional, meant to interrupt the spiral rather than ignite it. She felt his breath hitch before he steadied himself, hands lifting to her waist without pulling her closer.
She rested her forehead against his chest. "You don't need to shield me from every danger." she said quietly. "Just the one that would cut."
Outside the door, a sound—barely a sound. The suggestion of presence.
Isolde did not step back.
She lifted her face again and kissed him once more, slower this time. Marcus responded with careful restraint, his thumb brushing her lower lip as if to memorize the shape of it rather than claim it. The kiss deepened just enough to acknowledge the want beneath it, then stopped—deliberately.
"Let them see you unashamed." Isolde whispered. "And let them see I am not diminished by you."
Marcus leaned his forehead to hers, breath warm. "This much will be enough." he said again, anchoring himself to the word.
"Yes, this will be enough for now." she echoed.
They separated with visible effort, distance reclaimed without loss. Marcus inclined his head—not as a subject, but as a man accepting trust.
The boundary was set. The bond held.
The palace moved differently at night.
Isolde sensed it in the way corridors breathed, in the way shadows stretched longer than their sources. She dismissed her attendants early, thanked them, watched them leave. The door closed with a finality that was more illusion than fact.
She did not pretend to be alone.
Marcus took position near the far wall, presence quiet but unmistakable. Isolde poured tea she did not drink and sat by the window, listening to the city settle into itself. Somewhere beyond the walls, preparations continued—candles counted, glass polished, words rehearsed.
"They're listening," Marcus said softly.
"Yes." Isolde replied.
"They are spies from the First Princess." he added, without bitterness. Only fact.
Isolde nodded. "She wants to see if I've already claimed you."
"And if I've been reduced to no more than your bed warmer." Marcus replied.
Isolde turned from the window and studied him. "They'll see what they expect if we give them nothing else."
She approached him again, slower this time, and placed her hand over his heart. The beat beneath her palm was steady.
"You were not taken by me." she said. "You chose to stand here beside me."
Marcus covered her hand with his own. "I did."
She kissed him once—chaste enough to pass as propriety, lingering enough to carry truth. Then she stepped away, deliberately reclaiming space.
"Stay." she said, not as a command but as a decision.
"I will." Marcus replied.
They kept their distance after that. The night was not for indulgence. It was for resolve.
Outside the door, the silence eventually retreated. Somewhere, a watcher decided they had seen enough.
Later, when the palace settled into its shallow sleep, Isolde lay awake beneath the canopy, eyes tracing familiar shadows.
Marcus remained where he was, a steady presence she could feel even without seeing him. The quiet between them was companionable, edged with anticipation.
She thought of Mireya—of the careful smile, the certainty that the room would bend when asked. She thought of Prince Corvin, listening where others spoke freely. She thought of Raphael, poised at the center of a mechanism he had not designed.
Tomorrow, they will watch me, she thought.
Tomorrow, he will choose who he is.
Isolde turned onto her side and let the thought settle. Desire could wait. Power could not.
"Marcus," she said softly.
"Yes." he replied instantly.
"Thank you for holding the line." Isolde said.
A pause. Then, "Always."
Isolde closed her eyes, the certainty warming her more surely than any touch. The banquet loomed, inevitable now, and the trap—fully shaped—waited for its moment.
She slept with stillness wrapped around her like armor.