The imperial summons arrived at dawn.
Isolde had not yet broken her fast when the palace steward entered her private hall, expression carefully neutral, hands clasped around a scroll sealed in gold wax.
Not Temple white.
Gold.
The sigil of the Golden Diadem pressed clean and unmistakable at its center.
Isolde set down her cup before he spoke.
"Your Highness," the steward said, bowing low. "Her Imperial Majesty requests your presence in the Audience Chamber at the third bell."
Requests.
The word was polite.
The seal was not.
"Am I summoned alone?" Isolde asked.
"No, Your Highness." A pause. "Princess Caelia has been called as well."
Of course, she has.
Isolde dismissed the steward with a nod and remained seated for a moment after he left. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting long slants of pale gold across the floor. The city beyond was already awake—vendors calling, soldiers changing watch, bells ringing faintly in distant towers.
