The fragile peace that had settled over the Vexin household was shattered by the cold reality of a poor harvest. The rugged land, so perfect for training warriors, had yielded little. One brisk autumn morning, Damon sat in his solar with Arion, the financial ledgers spread out on the table between them. The numbers were grim, a stark and unforgiving truth.
"The stores are low, Damon," Arion said, his voice a low gravel. He ran a finger down a column of figures. "The spring was too wet, the summer too short. We have enough to get us through the first part of winter, but after that... there will be hunger."
Damon sighed, running a hand through his hair. The armor and sword were for war, a language he understood. The ledgers and the threat of starvation were a different kind of enemy, one he felt powerless against. "What of our coin? Can we buy grain from the south?"
"Our coffers are nearly empty," Arion replied. "We have enough to pay our knights, but not enough to feed a thousand mouths through the long winter. This royal marriage, with its sudden expenses, has left us more vulnerable than ever." Arion's bitterness was a palpable thing, but his loyalty was unwavering.
Damon leaned back in his chair, the weight of his entire house, his entire people, heavy on his shoulders. The memory of the court and the king's cruel gift felt a world away, yet its consequences were now a physical burden he could not ignore. He was a war hero, a powerful lord, but he was also a man who might not be able to feed his people.
"We cannot let them starve," Damon said, his voice low and firm.
Just then, the solar door creaked open. Isolde stood in the doorway, a simple wool cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She had been on her way to the gardens and had stopped, her expression unreadable, as she heard the low, tense voices. She had never seen Damon like this—not commanding, not training, but worried and helpless.
Damon's head snapped up. "Isolde," he said, his voice softening, though the tension never left his eyes. "I apologize. We did not hear you."
She stepped inside, her gaze flitting from the men to the ledgers on the table. In the palace, such worries were banished to hidden chambers. The princess was never meant to see the ugly truths of the world. "Is everything... all right, my Lord?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Arion shot her a suspicious glance, but Damon gave a small shake of his head. He gestured to a chair. "Come, Isolde. We have no secrets here. Our lands... they do not yield enough to feed us through the winter. We are in a difficult position."
Isolde's eyes widened. She had seen the poverty of the capital's lower streets from a distance, but the idea of starvation coming for her own household was a shocking and terrifying thought. "But... you are Lord of this land. Surely... you have coin?"
Damon offered a small, humorless smile. "We have strength, Princess. We have men, we have walls, and we have duty. But our coin... that is where our weakness lies. We are warriors, not farmers. The king knows this."
He rose from his chair, a newfound determination in his posture. "I will not let them go hungry," he said, his gaze fixed on the fire. "I will speak with the House of Galen. They have the grain and the gold. They have no love for the king, and they may be open to a trade."
He saw the fear in Isolde's eyes again, but this time it was different. It was not just fear for herself, but a fear that seemed to be for him, for his people. He turned to her, his voice low and earnest. "Do not worry, Isolde. I will find a way."
Isolde looked at him, at the worry etched on his handsome face, at the weight of responsibility that bowed his shoulders. She had seen the palace, a place of endless food and cruel games. Now, she was seeing a home, a place of hard work and real, tangible dangers. This was not a game. This was a man trying to save his people. And in that moment, her fear, once so absolute, began to shift. It was being replaced by something new: a quiet respect for the warrior who was also a protector, not just of a kingdom, but of every single person who relied on him.