The grand The hall's air thickened with tension as the old woman's eyes narrowed, pinning Owen where he stood.
Her gaze was merciless, unblinking. She tapped her staff once, and her voice rang clear, slicing through the murmurs.
"If she is truly the one…" she drawled, each word laced with disdain, "…then why, Owen, have you never brought her before me?"
The question fell like a stone in water. Every sound in the hall dimmed.
Owen stiffened. His throat worked, but his eyes avoided hers, shifting instead toward the marble floor. He forced a chuckle, hollow and unconvincing.
"You mistake her for someone else, Mother. She is no one of importance—just a guest, a passerby. Nothing more."
The old woman's lips curled, amused and venomous all at once.
"A guest?" she scoffed, sarcasm dripping from her tongue. "Do not insult me, Owen. You think I cannot see? You think these tired old eyes do not recognize blood when it parades itself in violet fire?"
Her staff struck the ground, reverberating like thunder.
"You've hidden her. From me. From Crimson. From what she was born to be. And you dare stand there, fumbling excuses, as if I am some fool to be deceived."
Owen's jaw tightened. His hands locked behind his back, his face a mask of calm. But beneath that mask, his mind churned. He could not let her drag Isabella into the open—not here, not now.
So he forced another diversion.
"She is not mine," he said firmly, his tone clipped. "You read too much into childish fables and stray eyes. She is a stranger, nothing more."
The grandmother's laughter was brittle, sharp as broken glass.
"Stranger?" she repeated mockingly. "Oh, Owen, always the stubborn boy. You truly believe you can shield her from me? From Crimson? From what she is? How naïve."
Her voice dropped, deadly calm.
"She is heir .And whether you admit it or not, she belongs here. With us."
Around them, the hall erupted with hushed murmurs. And in the shadows, two figures stiffened—Owen's other children, Isabella's half-siblings.
The elder leaned toward the younger, bitterness etched across their face.
"Her? That outsider?" they hissed, barely containing their jealousy. "She gets the old woman's attention, and suddenly she's important? Ridiculous."
The younger sneered, eyes darting to Isabella with poisonous envy.
"Purple eyes don't make her special. She doesn't belong here. She never will."
Their whispers were sharp enough to cut, and Isabella, sitting quietly, felt the sting of their glances even if she couldn't yet grasp the weight of the words thrown in shadows.
And while the grandmother pressed forward, relentless, Owen stood rooted in silence. His words were lies, his tone a mask—but deep within, his heart thundered with only one truth.
He would protect her.
Even if it meant standing against his own blood.