Lady Isolde Raventhorn stood in the center of the borrowed chamber, pressing her hand flat against the table. The wood felt rough under her palm, like it might steady her if she pushed hard enough. But she felt like she was coming apart anyway.
The room was tiny, no bigger than a cupboard. The thin bed creaked even under her light weight, and a single candle on the centre table flickered dimly, casting weak shadows round the room. It looked as unimpressed as she felt.
This was royalty's way of welcoming her back. Pathetic, she spat.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the crooked table. It held nothing but a layer of dust, a chipped cup and the candle. The air was stale and damp as the only window was a narrow slit near the ceiling, letting in just enough gray light to show how far she'd fallen.
This wasn't a mistake on her part. No. But it was starting to feel like a test she'd been set up to fail from the start.
Isolde laughed under her breath, a short, bitter sound. Of course they'd given her this room. Of course they'd stuck her in the west wing, the servants' quarters. It was a quiet message: You're not one of us anymore. We don't want you here.
She reached down to pull off her boots, the leather stiff and cold from the long ride to the palace. Her toes were numb from the chill. So much for her grand return.
She'd walked into that hall like she owned it, but now she was in this hole, alone with her thoughts.
Her mask was still on her face, tied tight. It had been easy to wear it into the Great Hall, but now it felt heavy, pressing against her skin. She unhooked it slowly and set it down next to the wine they'd brought her. They'd forgotten to pour it, or maybe they just didn't care. She poured it herself, filling the chipped cup.
Lady Isolde of Raventhorn, reduced to this. But she didn't cry. She didn't scream. She didn't let herself do those small, weak things. She'd learned better in the years she'd been gone.
Instead, she thought about her. Elsinore.
That woman, all lace and jewels, scheming like the serpent. It was fitting that Isolde had come back from the dead only to find Elsinore right next to Rowan, like she'd been waiting for her spot.
The first face she had seen when she announced herself was the one she hated most—more than any enemy who'd ever drawn a sword against her.
Elsinore had looked at her like she was dirt on a clean floor. And maybe Isolde was—a stain on Elsinore's perfect plan, a truth that had walked back in when she least expected it.
Isolde sipped the wine, and it burned going down. Good. It woke her up, sharpened her edges.
Elsinore always thought she was above everything, untouchable. But Isolde wasn't here to beg for forgiveness or pity. She wasn't going to fit back into their story. She was here to rewrite it all, on her terms.
The door creaked open suddenly. No knock. No warning. Just pushed open like she didn't deserve even that tiny courtesy.
In stepped Elsinore, her fine cloak draped over her shoulders, her gloves polished and spotless. Isolde didn't stand up. She wasn't worth the effort.
"Bad manners," Isolde said lightly. "Does no one knock in this palace anymore?"
Elsinore shut the door behind her with a soft thud, her face calm. "I wanted to see how you were settling in."
"How kind," Isolde said, eyeing her cloak and gloves. "Checking to make sure I fit into this rat hole?"
Elsinore's smile was cool and fake. "I admit, I expected you to be in better quarters."
"Did you?" Isolde raised an eyebrow. "That's odd, since you're the one who ordered that I be put in here."
"I suggested discretion," Elsinore said. "For your sake."
"For mine?" Isolde let out a short laugh. "No one here would care if I woke up dead in the stables. Especially not you."
Elsinore stepped forward, careful not to touch anything in the dirty room. "Lady Isolde of Raventhorn," she said, drawing out the name. "This isn't how you get back in. You can't just march through the gates and expect us to hand you everything."
Isolde stood up slowly, her eyes locked on Elsinore's. "I didn't ask for the crown."
"No," Elsinore said. "You wanted attention. And you got it."
Isolde narrowed her eyes. "Say what you came here to say, Elsinore. I'm tired."
Elsinore tilted her head, like she was studying her. "You should have stayed wherever you hid—in some forest or foreign court. You chose to disappear. You don't get to come back now and mess up our peace."
"I didn't disappear," Isolde snapped. "And I didn't crawl back. I walked in with purpose. Watch me finish what I started."
Elsinore smiled again, thin and irritating. "No one missed you here, Isolde. You were better off gone."
"But I'm back now," Isolde said, matching her tone. "You'll have to deal with it."
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Isolde felt a sting thinking about Rowan—sitting in his comfortable chair while she froze in this tiny room. Had he even thought about her since the hall?
Elsinore watched her, like she could read her mind.
Then she spoke smoothly. "It's strange, isn't it? You come back after all these years, and he doesn't even talk to you. Just tells the steward to put you in the servants' wing."
Isolde clenched her jaw. "If you came here to gloat, surely you can do better."
"Darling," Elsinore said, her voice like honey, "this isn't me gloating."
"So why are you here?" Isolde asked.
"I came because I want to understand," Elsinore said. "Why now? Why return after so long? Why pick the night before Rowan's betrothal to me? What are you really after, Isolde?"
There it was—the desperation Elsinore tried to hide. She'd kept calm for hours since Isolde arrived, and Isolde had worried she'd changed. But no, she was the same controlling Elsinore.
Perfect. That need to know everything was key to Isolde's plan.
Isolde walked to the window, hiding her satisfaction. She kept her voice cold. "You think I came to ruin your party?"
Elsinore stayed silent.
"You think too highly of yourself," Isolde said.
Elsinore's voice hardened. "The world thought you were dead. You let us believe it. Now you walk in like it's nothing, with perfect timing. Isn't that a bit much, even for you?"
Isolde turned back to her. "The world didn't check if I survived. You didn't. Rowan didn't. You all wanted to forget me. Now you're mad because I made it hard to forget?"
Elsinore's jaw twitched, just a little.
"Do you think this makes you matter again?" Elsinore asked. "Dragging old memories into a court that's moved on? Opening old wounds?"
Isolde laughed, sharp and bitter.
"Don't talk to me about wounds!" She snapped.
Elsinore's eyes flashed with anger. "You had choices. You had him to yourself once, but you couldn't hold on, could you? Why come back now that he's forgotten you?"
Isolde smiled inside. Angry Elsinore was what she wanted.
"Is that what hurts you?" Isolde said. "Tell me, what are you afraid of? You stand next to him now. He picked you. I have to say, you moved quick. Faster than I expected. Almost like you couldn't wait for me to be gone for good."
A knock cut them off.
The door opened a crack, and a young girl, no older than sixteen, peeked in. She held her apron in nervous hands, her eyes darting between them.
"My lady?" she said, her voice small. Her eyes widened when she saw Elsinore, then dropped to the floor. "I'm sorry, I was told to come right away."
"By who?" Elsinore asked, frowning.
The girl swallowed hard. "Lord Rowan, Your Grace. He sent me to serve Lady Isolde. And to take her to her new quarters."
Elsinore turned fast. "Her what?"
The girl flinched. "Her new rooms. In the Lord's wing. Second floor and—"
"Thank you," Isolde said quickly, cutting her off before she incurred more of Elsinore's wrath. "Wait outside."
The girl curtsied fast and hurried out, closing the door.
Isolde watched Elsinore's face. She was upset, her lips pressed thin, her hands clasped behind her back like she wanted to hit something.
"Well," Isolde said, folding her arms. "Looks like someone still knows how to act decent."
"Or," Elsinore said sharply, "he knows how dangerous you are."
Isolde blinked, surprised. "What?"
"Don't think it's because he cares," Elsinore said coldly. "He's giving you a room to watch you."
Isolde smirked, to make her madder. "You sound jealous."
Elsinore stepped closer, her voice low. "I built what he has now. I stood by him when everyone whispered about you. Don't think you can walk in and tear it down with your sad story."
"I don't need to tear anything down," Isolde said, picking up her cloak. "I'm here for what's mine. The rest will fall apart on its own."
Elsinore said nothing, her eyes burning.
That silence was Isolde's first real win since entering the palace.
Isolde brushed past her, heading for the door.
Let her sit with it. Let her worry. Let her get angry.
Because Isolde didn't know Rowan's plan yet, but she'd find out.
And whatever Elsinore guarded so hard? That's where she would strike first.
Isolde paused at the door, turning back. "You know, Elsinore, I thought you'd be smarter after all this time. But you're still the same—scared of losing control."
Elsinore's face tightened, but she stayed quiet.
Isolde opened the door and stepped out, leaving her behind.
The servant girl waited in the hall, her eyes wide. "This way, my lady," she said, leading her up the stairs.
As they walked, Isolde's mind raced. Rowan's move with the rooms—was it kindness? Or a trap? She needed to be careful. The palace was full of games, and she was just starting hers.
The court thought they'd forgotten her, but she'd make them remember. Every slight, every betrayal—she'd pay them back.
Rowan. Elsinore. The Queen. They'd all learn soon enough.
She wouldn't lose this time. Not again.