Days bled into one another in a quiet haze of preparation. The air in the manor was filled with the sounds of packing and the brisk, low-voiced orders of Damon's men. The Vexin household, so out of place in the opulent capital, moved with a purpose born of years of military discipline. They were like a coiled spring, ready to be released, eager to leave the stifling city behind.
Isolde watched it all from the corner of the great room, a silent observer in a world she didn't understand. A servant girl had brought her a collection of new clothes—simple dresses made of sturdy wool and linen, trousers, and a thick riding cloak. They were practical and unadorned, a world away from the delicate silks and cumbersome gowns she had worn her entire life. She ran her hands over the coarse fabric, a strange mix of curiosity and unease stirring within her.
Damon found her there, giving orders to his quartermaster about the provisions for their journey. He moved with a focused intensity she had only glimpsed at the wedding. This was his true world, a world of logistics and command, a world far removed from the court's cruel games.
"Princess," he said, his voice gentle.
She flinched and quickly clasped her hands. "My Lord."
"We leave in the morning," he said, his gaze settling on the pile of new clothes beside her. "I hope the garments are to your liking. They are not as fine as what you are accustomed to, but they will serve you better on the road. The borderlands are… less forgiving."
Isolde looked down at the clothes. "They are… different." She hesitated, then lifted her gaze to his. "Are we truly leaving?"
"Yes," Damon said, a flicker of something she couldn't name—relief, perhaps—in his eyes. "We will make for the borderlands. It is my home. It is where my people are."
He saw the fear return to her eyes. She had been passed from one place of terror to another, from one powerful man to another. She had no reason to believe his home would be any different.
"You will be safe there, Isolde," he said, his voice soft but firm. "My knights, my people, my family… they are loyal. They will not harm you."
A moment later, Arion entered the room, his face grim with concentration. He carried a map and a list of the knights who would ride with them.
"The route is secure, Damon," Arion said, his eyes scanning the document. "I have tripled the guard. The Galen merchants have a few men along the trade route we'll be taking, but they are of no concern. The Sorran guards, on the other hand… they are everywhere."
"I am aware," Damon said, his tone clipped. "Take the most skilled men. I want no trouble. None at all."
Arion's gaze fell on Isolde, his sharp eyes taking in her stillness. He offered her a brief, curt nod before turning back to his brother. "The scouts report all is clear for now. We ride at dawn."
Damon nodded, a silent understanding passing between the brothers. The unspoken tension in the air was thick. They were leaving the king's palace, but they were still under his watchful eye. The road to the borderlands was long, and danger, both seen and unseen, would be their constant companion.
As the sun began to set, casting a golden light through the manor's windows, Isolde packed her new clothes into a small satchel. She was leaving the only life she had ever known. She looked at Damon, who was checking the edge of his sword, his face a mask of quiet focus. He was a warrior, a man of power, just as her brother was. But there was a difference, a subtle quality in his kindness that she couldn't quite name. She still had no reason to trust him, but for the first time in her life, she felt a flicker of hope, a small spark of curiosity about what lay beyond the city walls and what her life with this strange, kind man might truly be.