The journey from the rugged Vexin mountains to the heart of the kingdom was a slow and deliberate descent from one world into another. For weeks, the familiar scent of pine and cold stone had filled the air; now, as they neared the capital, it was replaced by the cloying perfume of fine silks and the distant stench of the city's crowded streets. The Vexin mountains were a fortress of stone and steel, but the capital was a fortress of lies and whispers.
Damon rode at the head of their small procession, his massive form a stark and imposing figure against the backdrop of the city's elaborate architecture. He wore a finely tailored tunic of dark wool, a stark contrast to his usual leathers, but his longsword was still at his side—a silent, defiant reminder of the power he carried. Beside him, Isolde rode with a poise that had been bred into her since birth. She was a different woman now, her eyes no longer filled with a quiet terror but with a sharp, guarded intelligence. This was her home, but it was a home she had no fondness for.
The streets were a tapestry of noise and color. Merchants hawked their wares, and finely dressed nobles rode past in polished carriages. The Vexin knights, chosen for their unwavering loyalty and grim discipline, rode behind them. To the casual eye, they were a simple honor guard. To Damon, they were a shield.
They were met at the gates of the royal compound not by the king, but by a detachment of the Queen's royal guard—a subtle show of power. The guard, clad in polished plate armor, were a striking contrast to the Vexin knights, whose leather and chainmail spoke of practicality over pomp. They were led by a portly, smiling man with the face of a courtier and the eyes of a serpent.
"Lord Vexin, and my Lady Isolde," he said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "Welcome back to the seat of civilization. The Queen is thrilled to have you join us for the Jubilee. I am Sir Alaric, at your service."
Damon's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a gesture of instinct he quickly suppressed. He met the courtier's gaze with a cold, unwavering intensity. "Sir Alaric. The journey was long. We are eager to rest before the celebrations begin."
Alaric's smile did not waver. "Of course. The Queen has been so considerate as to arrange private chambers for you in the west wing of the palace. A testament to your house's newfound prestige, no doubt. The King, of course, is a busy man, but he is eager to congratulate you on your victory. He will see you at the feast this evening."
Isolde felt Damon tense at the mention of the King, but she squeezed his hand, a silent reminder of their plan. She turned to Sir Alaric, her voice polite and her smile as carefully crafted as his own. "Sir Alaric, you honor us. My husband and I look forward to expressing our gratitude to Her Majesty and the King in person."
As they were led to their chambers, Isolde leaned close to Damon. "The west wing," she whispered. "It's the most isolated part of the palace. It's where the King used to keep his… less savory guests. It is a show of power. They want to keep us contained, a small island of defiance in a sea of control."
Their chambers were lavish, but suffocating. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the sun, and the air was thick with the scent of old wood and perfumed oils. It was a golden cage. Damon looked out a small window at the manicured gardens below, his face a mask of distaste.
"I hate this place," he muttered. "Every word is a lie, and every smile is a dagger."
"Then we will learn to wield the daggers better than they do," Isolde replied, her resolve as cold and sharp as her wit.
Later that afternoon, a young servant girl was sent to inform them that the Queen wished to greet them privately before the evening feast. Damon and Isolde went to the Queen's solar, a place of soft light and dangerous shadows. Queen Elara sat on a cushioned settee, a masterpiece of a woman with a face of porcelain and eyes of ice.
"Isolde, my dear," she said, her voice like honey. "How wonderful to have you back among us. You have grown so much since your… departure." Her eyes lingered on Damon, a subtle sneer playing on her lips. "And you, Lord Vexin. A warrior of great repute. We were all so surprised to hear of your success in the north. Such a small, delicate problem, handled with such a heavy hand."
Damon met her gaze without flinching. "The problem of rebellion, Your Majesty, is best handled with swiftness and finality. It is a lesson my father taught me, and one I teach my men."
Elara's smile tightened. "Indeed. We all know of your family's… unique methods. And we were so delighted to hear of your clever solution with the rebellious Lord Elric. Such a shame he could not be brought back alive to answer for his crimes. The King would have loved to have him in the dungeons."
Damon's jaw clenched. He had lied to the King, and the Queen's words were a veiled accusation, a reminder that she knew more than she was letting on. But he held his tongue, his knuckles white at his sides. This was Isolde's battle to fight.
Isolde stepped forward, her demeanor perfectly calm. "The northern marches are a harsh place, Your Majesty. My husband did all he could to uphold the King's law, but the wild lands often claim their own." She met Elara's gaze, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "But I can assure you, the House of Vexin is now more loyal to the crown than ever. After all, the Galen alliance has brought a new kind of peace to our lands. A peace that can only benefit the kingdom."
The Queen's eyes narrowed. Isolde had not only defended Damon but had also reminded her that the Vexin alliance was now a source of wealth and influence, and that it would be a costly mistake to destroy it.
Just then, the doors to the solar burst open, and King Theron strode in. He was a man of immense arrogance, his handsome features marred by a sense of petulant cruelty. He ignored Damon and Isolde, instead greeting his wife with a kiss on the cheek.
"My Queen," he said. "I see our guests from the border have arrived. Welcome back, Isolde. Your husband has done as he was commanded, it seems. Though he has returned to us without his prize. Tell me, Lord Vexin, what good is a warrior's sword if it cannot bring back a rebel to his King?"
Damon's rage was a physical presence in the room. This was the man who had forced him into a political marriage, the man who wanted to destroy him. But he had Isolde. He looked at her, and her eyes held a silent command: Speak with your head, not your heart.
"Your Majesty," Damon said, his voice calm and steady. "My sword is a tool of the House of Vexin, wielded to protect the King's peace. The northern rebellion is over, and the lands are now a part of the kingdom once more. The House of Vexin does not need to bring back a prize. The House of Vexin brings back peace."
The King's face was a mask of furious disbelief, but he could not argue. Damon's words were a perfect defense, an honorable and defiant answer that could not be misconstrued as treason.
As the King and Queen left to prepare for the feast, Isolde let out a shaky breath. She looked at Damon, her heart swelling with a mix of fear and pride. They had survived their first encounter. But she knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that this was just the beginning. The real battle, the one that would determine the fate of their house, was just about to begin.