The capital glittered at night.
From the tall arched windows of her private chamber, Isolde watched lantern light ripple across the lower districts like fallen constellations. The city was loud even at this hour—voices drifting upward, carriage wheels clattering faintly over stone, distant music bleeding from noble estates.
It felt alive.
Unconcerned.
Unaware that within the palace walls, the future of its crown was tightening into something sharper.
Isolde rested her fingertips against the cool glass.
The Empress had spoken clearly.
She had fulfilled the requirements.
Not affection. Not favoritism. But acknowledgment.
That acknowledgment had shifted the court's balance by degrees too subtle for most to perceive—but not subtle enough to go unnoticed by the Temple.
Cassimir would not let this stand unshaped.
The Inner Sanctum did not lose ground without recovering it elsewhere.
