The King of Lyonesse had been assassinated by Aethelred agents ten days ago.
He drew his last breath only yesterday.
The Crown Princess hadn't even been formally crowned before the capital was overrun. At just sixteen, she was naive to the world's true ruthlessness.
All she understood was that staying close to Grand Duke Alaric meant safety, food, and maybe one day, a kingdom to reclaim.
For now, she had escaped.
Whether she ultimately survived… that was in fate's hands.
Sylas met Isolde's gaze without flinching.
"My mother departed from the Cloudwood Garrison. She sent only a verbal message—told me to fend for myself. So no, I don't know where they went."
"You don't know?" Isolde's voice cooled. "Then what use are you now?"
A wave of bleak acceptance washed over him:
"I am of no use…"
Her tone sharpened. Without standing, she rested her sharp chin on her hand:
"You refuse to yield, you won't surrender, and you offer no value. What gives you the right to negotiate with me?"
"I…" Sylas faltered.
He had expected a clean execution.
But the look on Isolde's face told him she was playing—a cat with a cornered mouse.
She was the victor. She had time. Whims came with the crown.
Clenching his jaw, he said:"Your Majesty's influence spans the continent. Surely you wouldn't stoop to tormenting someone like me. Please, use your sword. Make it quick."
"Very well." Isolde chuckled lazily.
She lifted the sword at her hip—not drawing it, only laying it across her knees.
"Stand up."
A strange calm settled over Sylas.
Death was coming.
He stood slowly and closed his eyes.
"You've grown quite tall." Isolde remarked, sounding almost displeased.
Sylas was handsome, refined—almost elegantly built.
But his height was unusual.
In this woman-ruled world, he stood taller than most women.
It was part of why he remained unmarried at twenty.
Ambition came first—his standards were high.
But also, potential partners found his stature… intimidating.
Eyes still shut, Sylas said quietly:"Your Majesty, please. What does height matter to a dead man?"
"Mmm~ No." Isolde shook her head, clearly drawing out the moment."You're standing too high. I can't reach your neck like this. Crouch down."
Sylas's eyes flew open in disbelief.
If she couldn't reach his neck, why not strike his heart? Why not simply stand herself?
But her expression wasn't teasing—it was command.
She was Queen. Even an execution would be on her terms.
Defeated, he lowered himself, once more closing his eyes and bracing for the end.
Isolde watched his handsome, resigned face and felt a flicker of intrigue.
This was the man who had opposed her for years. Letting him die quickly felt… underwhelming.
Almost without thought, she reached out and pinched his chin, turning his face slightly.
Even fine jade deserved a critical eye.
"What are you doing?" Sylas jerked back, stumbling to the floor.
In this society, physical contact between men and women was tightly controlled.
Some men from strict families weren't even permitted public visibility.
Though Sylas came from a military line and was more open than most, being touched so brazenly flooded him with instant shame and anger.
Flushing deeply, he spat:"Kill me if you wish! Must you humiliate me?"
"I—" Isolde cut herself off, surprised by his reaction.
Then her own temper flared. She was Queen of Aethelred.
He was a prisoner. How dare he show such defiance?
Oh, you recoil at a touch? What if I went further? Would you cry? Threaten to hang yourself?
I've been too soft. I'll break that pride.
Abandoning her hand, she used her sword's scabbard to press against his throat.
With a deft motion, she flipped open his collar, revealing a patch of fair skin.
Sylas froze in horror.
He grabbed the scabbard, lips thin:"Your Majesty understands a man's virtue. I wish only to die with mine intact."
"Heh. How do you prove such… virtue?" Isolde wasn't pressing further—yet.
Her voice was icy.
Sylas was silent a moment.
Then, slowly, he rolled up his sleeve.
On his wrist was a single crimson mark.
Isolde's voice softened:"A Chastity Seal?"
Sylas nodded, utterly shamed.
He regretted not hanging himself earlier.
His mother's words—any life was better than a noble death—had stayed his hand.
But this was beyond bearing.
For a man to be forced to display his Seal to a woman… it was the deepest humiliation.
But Isolde wasn't done. "What if it's fake?"
"Fake?" Sylas stared. "I've never been promised. How could it be false?"
Isolde's tone was cold:"I've heard you were the darling of Cloudwood Garrison. That soldiers of Lyonesse would die for you. Surely you must have… rewarded their loyalty."
"You—!!" The words cut deep.
Rage flashed in Sylas's eyes.
He trembled, face pale then red. Not a man of insults, he finally said coldly:"Your Majesty is a strategist. You know morale's value. How can you insult soldiers so? Aren't you afraid of demoralizing your own army?"
Isolde smirked:"I think you've lost your senses. I mock a man from a defeated nation. Why would my soldiers care? Besides, I'm stating facts. Is that insult?"
She sheathed her sword, squatted directly before him, and grabbed his arm.
She studied the mark intently—a plum-blossom crimson against pale skin.
Beautiful.
Being inspected like this filled Sylas with despair.
The act itself was the insult. Yet he didn't resist.
Some part of him still wanted her to know—he was pure.
Isolde's gaze deepened.
For the first time, she felt truly captivated. It wasn't just his face. It was his earlier pride.
So, proud Sylas—how does it feel to be on the ground like this? Letting me check your virtue? Trying to prove you're clean?
A smug thrill ran through her.
"They say," she murmured, "a true Chastity Seal tastes sweet. Shall I taste it?"
"No!" Sylas pulled back. "If you don't believe me, then don't! Just kill me now— Hey!!"
He froze in disgust, powerless to stop her.
He watched as Isolde lowered her head and pressed her lips to the red mark.
A cold, damp sensation spread on his wrist—like being touched by a snake.
He suppressed a shudder and waited.
A long moment later, Isolde lifted her head.
She eyed him suspiciously: "Bitter. It's fake."
"What? How?" Sylas was aghast.
He had never been with a woman!
"Taste it yourself." Isolde pushed his arm toward his mouth.
Confused, Sylas tentatively licked his own wrist.
Damp. Sweet.
But overwhelmingly, it carried Isolde's scent.
He stared at her, stunned.
She wore a wicked smile, reaching out to stroke his face:
"An indirect kiss, Lord Sylas. Doesn't that count as losing your purity?"
Sylas's mouth hung open.
Then he turned his head and spat violently on the floor.
"Pttui! Pttui!"
Rage flashed in Isolde's eyes. She gripped his chin viciously.
"What? You find me dirty? I haven't even said you're dirty! Open your mouth—"
She forced his jaw open.
"Pttui!"