Damon and Isolde returned to the feasting hall, a quiet calm settling over them. They did not speak of what had happened on the parapet, but the air between them was charged with a new, unspoken understanding. The political alliance they had just forged with the House of Galen felt secondary to the personal one they had finally cemented. They took their places at the high table, and a new, genuine smile was on Isolde's face as she watched Arion and Lysa.
Lysa, with her sharp mind and keen eyes, was already talking to Arion, not of battle and swords, but of the logistical challenges of a long winter and the complexities of trade routes. Arion listened intently, a newfound respect in his eyes. He had feared a "sickly dove," but he had found a partner with a mind as sharp as any blade.
The celebration was at its height when a new messenger, this one bearing the sigil of the Royal House, entered the hall. He was not a Vexin guard or a Royal Knight, but a servant of the court, dressed in fine silks that were a stark contrast to the rough furs and leathers of the Vexin people. He bore a sealed letter, which he presented to Damon.
Damon broke the seal and read the elegant script. The letter was an invitation, written with all the flowery language of the court. Queen Elara, the King's wife and the mother of the heir, extended a personal invitation to Lord and Lady Vexin to attend the Royal Jubilee in the capital. The letter spoke of honoring Damon for his swift victory in the northern marches and celebrating the recent alliance with the House of Galen.
Isolde, leaning over Damon's shoulder, read the words. Her face, which had been so full of warmth, turned to ice. "This is a trap," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise of the feast.
Damon's jaw tightened. "She congratulates me for my victory while secretly wishing for my failure. She praises our alliance as a way to lure us to her."
He looked at the letter, his face hardening with familiar anger. "I will not go," he said, his voice a low growl. "I will send a message of refusal. We will not walk into her den."
Isolde placed a hand on his arm, her touch calming his rage. "No, my Lord. That is what she wants. A direct refusal is an insult, a declaration of war. It will give her and the King the pretext they need to brand you a traitor."
Damon looked at her, his frustration clear. "Then what do we do? We accept and walk into the trap?"
Isolde's eyes met his, her expression now a portrait of cunning and resolve. "We accept. But we do not go as a fearful Lord and his shamed wife. We go as a united front. As a powerful House with a new alliance. We show them that the Vexin fortress is not the only place we have strength. We will play their game, but we will play it on our terms. They want us to come to the capital. We will go, and we will remind them who we are."
Damon looked at the determined strength in Isolde's eyes, a strength he had come to love. He saw her not as a pampered princess but as a queen in her own right, one who understood the subtle, deadly language of courtly power. He saw her as his greatest weapon.
He crushed the letter in his hand, a small, victorious smile playing on his lips. "Very well. We will go to the capital. Let the Queen have her jubilee. We will give her a celebration she will never forget."