Rowan Thorne had survived wars. He'd seen men burn alive, felt his own blood soak the snow, carried the dying words of soldiers across enemy lines…
But nothing—not the screams, not the steel, not the cold—had prepared him for the moment she walked into the Great Hall of Aerendale Palace.
He stood at the dais, a condemned man in his crimson cloak, the crowned wolf of House Thorne etched on his mask. Beside him, Lady Elsinore of Greendale radiated power, her silver gown catching the chandelier light, her pale hair braided with black sapphires. She was beautiful, cunning, and dangerous. Rowan had once thought her cleverness could strengthen the crown, but now her presence only made his skin crawl.
Her gloved fingers brushed his hand, "You're restless, my lord," she said, her voice sweet in disguise, like she was testing him.
"I don't like masks," Rowan said, his tone flat. He meant more than the one on his face, but he didn't expect her to understand.
Elsinore's smile sharpened, her eyes glinting behind her mask. "But you've worn one for years."
Rowan didn't answer. He didn't trust himself to speak, not when her touch felt like a raven's claw.
The hall buzzed with nobles, their laughter and clinking goblets filling the air with a false sense of celebration, but Rowan barely noticed. His focus was on the crowd, searching for something he couldn't name—until the trumpets blared.
The room went silent. The herald, in Aerendale's navy and gold, stepped forward to announce, "A noblewoman seeks audience with the court," he said, his voice shaking. "She claims blood rights to the Raventhorn line."
Rowan's chest tightened. Raventhorn. The name hit him like a blade. That house was gone, its last heir dead five years ago in a wrecked carriage in the Eastern woods. He'd seen the reports, the blood-soaked wreckage. He'd mourned her.
No. It couldn't be.
The doors swung open, and Rowan forgot to breathe.
She walked in, head high, her black velvet cloak trailing like a shadow. Her half-mask, shaped like a raven's wing, didn't hide her eyes, sharp, green, and burning with purpose.
The crowd parted as she moved, her gown sweeping the marble floor. She didn't look at them. She looked straight at Rowan, and he felt the ground shift under him.
Isolde.
His wife. His ex-wife. The woman he'd thought was dead.
Rowan's heart pounded. He knew that walk, the proud way she carried herself, like the world had to bend to her. It was her. Not her ghost, not a trick. Isolde, alive and walking toward him with a fire he'd never seen in her before.
The herald cleared his throat. "Lady Isolde Raventhorn," he announced, and the whispers grew louder.
Rowan's body reacted before his mind could catch up, shock, guilt, and something deeper, something he didn't want to name. Longing. Not just a flicker, but a wave that hit him hard, like a drink he knew he shouldn't take but couldn't resist.
She wore black, like always. It suited her, and he'd told her that years ago, back when he could pull her close and feel her laugh against his chest. But this wasn't mourning black. This was armor, stitched with anger and power. She was the woman he remembered, but different, sharper, colder, untouchable.
Her eyes locked on his, and there was no warmth in them. No love. Just fury, cutting through him like a knife. She looked at him like he was nothing, like he was already dead to her. And maybe he was.
Rowan couldn't speak. His throat was tight, his thoughts a mess. The hall waited, every noble watching, hungry for what came next.
Isolde stopped in the center of the floor and spoke, her voice clear and strong, like it was meant to break the silence. "My name is Lady Isolde Raventhorn, daughter of Lord Gareth Raventhorn, niece to Lady Thelyra, last living heir of the coastal Raventhorn estate. I was wrongfully declared dead five winters ago.
Rowan stood frozen, his eyes fixed on her. She was beautiful, gods, she was still so beautiful, even with the hardness in her face. Her mouth, once soft when she whispered to him in the dark, was now a tight line, shaped by years of bitterness. Her eyes didn't just look at him; they saw through him, like he was a stranger.
She went on, her voice steady. "I've returned to claim my father's legacy, my dowry, and my dignity. Everything this court took from me when I was cast out and my marriage annulled."
The words hit Rowan like a fist. The crowd murmured, whispering about scandal. He felt their eyes on him, waiting for him to respond, to explain. But he had nothing to give them.
Isolde pulled a scroll from her cloak, its black wax seal stamped with the Raventhorn raven. "This is my father's testament," she said, holding it up. "Written in his final days, witnessed by three coastal lords, sealed in the Temple of Ilyrion. It names me as his heir and proves who I am."
Rowan finally found his voice. Even he could not recognise how rough he sounded. "You were dead," he whispered more to himself.
But she heard. Isolde turned to him, her eyes cold. "No, Rowan. You wanted me dead. You signed the annulment. You exiled me. You didn't even check if I was really gone."
He flinched. He wanted to argue, to say he'd searched for weeks, ridden through the woods himself, chasing any sign of her. But he'd stopped. He'd believed the reports, the blood, the wreckage. He'd mourned her, buried her memory, and moved on because a Duke had to. The alliance with House Draemor was failing, and Elsinore was there, ready to step in.
"I was attacked," Isolde said, her voice cutting through his painful memory. "My carriage overturned. I nearly died in a stranger's hut, bleeding for weeks before I could walk. And when I could, I didn't come back because you'd already erased me. Called me barren, weak, useless. But I survived."
Then he heard Elsinore's voice, "That's quite a story."
Isolde, fire that she is, faced her, not backing down. "Convenient timing, don't you think? My convoy was attacked right after your council pushed Rowan to marry into House Draemor. Strange how fast my family's alliance with House Thorne fell apart."
Elsinore returned in that cold voice of hers. "Are you accusing me of treason?"
"Not yet," Isolde said, matching her tone. "Unless you're admitting something."
Rowan's hands clenched. He wanted to step in, to stop this, but his feet wouldn't move. Isolde's words were tearing through him, ripping open old wounds. She wasn't wrong. He hadn't searched long enough. He'd let her name be erased, burned from the Palace records.
"Why now?" he asked, louder this time. "Why come back after all these years?"
Isolde's gaze was like ice. "Because now I have what I didn't then. Allies. Land. Wealth. The truth. And my father's seal."
"You don't have the right to—" Rowan started, but Isolde cut him off with a raised hand.
"I have every right," she said. "You married me. You wore my crest. You took my dowry. Then you broke your vows. When you thought I was dead, you moved on without a second thought."
Rowan's throat tightened. "I thought you were dead," he said, almost a whisper.
"Did you look for me?" Isolde asked, her voice sharp. "Did you even try?"
He had no answer. He'd stopped looking, convinced she was gone. The silence stretched, heavy and damning.
"Don't say my name," Isolde said, stepping closer. "You lost that right."
Elsinore clapped once, loud and sharp. "Enough," she said, her voice cutting through the tension. "The court will look into this. For now, Lady Isolde will stay as a guest of the palace. But we'll verify every claim."
Isolde dipped her head, calm but firm. "I'm ready for the truth."
She turned to leave, her cloak trailing. As she passed by him, she leaned close, her voice a whisper. "I didn't come back for you."
Rowan's chest tightened. He watched her go, the doors closing with a thud. He wanted to chase her, to say he was sorry, that he'd grieved, that he still dreamed of her. But he didn't. He didn't know what he was to her anymore—villain, coward, or stranger.
Elsinore's voice came low, just for him. "She carries herself well," she said, sipping her wine. "Almost convincing."
Rowan said nothing, his jaw tight.
"She's good at playing the victim," Elsinore murmured, stepping closer. "But you know how cruel she can be."
Cruel? Isolde? She was the sweetest woman he had ever known.
He didn't respond. Her words were poison, and he wasn't falling for it.
"She didn't come back to reclaim her house, Rowan," Elsinore continued. "She came to destroy yours."
She stepped in front of him, her eyes gleaming. "Be careful. You've built too much to let her ruin it."
Rowan's patience snapped. He stood, his voice booming. "This gathering is dismissed."
Elsinore's smile faltered, but she said nothing, following the crowd. Rowan stayed on the dais, alone, staring at the doors where Isolde had vanished.