Isolde Raventhorn stood in the palace gardens, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The air was cool, carrying the scent of roses and wet leaves, and the moonlight cast long shadows across the stone paths.
She'd slipped out of her new quarters in the Lord's wing to clear her head, away from the stifling walls and the whispers of servants. The garden was quiet, a rare break from the court's constant scheming, but her thoughts were anything but calm.
She stopped by a marble fountain, its water trickling softly. Her reflection stared back—sharp cheekbones, dark hair pulled tight, eyes that didn't soften anymore. She barely recognized herself. Five years ago, she'd walked these gardens with Rowan, laughing, her arm looped through his. Now, she was here alone, plotting how to take back what was hers.
Her fingers traced the edge of the fountain. Elsinore's visit last night still burned in her mind. The woman's smug face, her taunts about Rowan moving on, it made Isolde's blood boil. And Rowan moving her to a better room? She didn't buy it as kindness. It was a move in whatever game he was playing, and she wasn't going to fall for it.
Above, in his study, Rowan Thorne stood at the window, his hands gripping the frame. He'd been reading old reports all day, trying to piece together what happened to Isolde five years ago, but his eyes kept drifting to the garden below. When he saw her standing by the fountain, his breath caught. She looked like she belonged there, even in her plain black cloak, her posture defiant despite the late hour.
He shouldn't go down. He knew it. Talking to her would only make things worse, stir up feelings he'd buried, make him question everything. But his feet were already moving, carrying him out of the study, down the stone stairs, and into the garden before he could stop himself.
Isolde heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path and turned, her hand instinctively dropping to the dagger hidden under her cloak.
When she saw Rowan, her eyes narrowed. He was unmasked, his dark hair messy, his crimson cloak swapped for a plain tunic. He looked less like a duke and more like the man she'd once loved. That only made her angrier.
"What do you want?" she asked with an angry tone.
Rowan stopped a few feet away, his hands raised slightly in defence. "I saw you from my window. Thought you might want to talk."
"Talk?" Isolde laughed, short and bitter. "We're past talking, Rowan. You made that clear when you signed me away."
His jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm. "I didn't know you were alive, Isolde. I swear, I thought you were gone."
"Don't," she snapped, stepping closer. "Don't act like you cared. You didn't look for me. You didn't even try."
"I did try," Rowan said, his voice rising. "I rode through the Eastern woods for weeks. I followed every lead, every rumor. The reports said you were dead, blood, wreckage, no survivors. What was I supposed to do?"
"You were supposed to not give up!" She shot back. "You were my husband. You swore to protect me, to stand by me. But the second things got hard for you, you let them erase me."
Rowan's hands clenched at his sides. "It wasn't that simple. The alliance with Draemor was falling apart. The war was tearing the kingdom apart. I had to make choices."
"Choices?" Isolde echoed. "You chose Elsinore. You chose to annul our marriage and move on like I was nothing. Like I meant nothing to you!"
"I mourned you," Rowan said, stepping closer. His eyes intense, searching hers. "I grieved every day. I didn't want to move on, but I had to—for the kingdom, for my house."
She scoffed, turning away to face the fountain. "Don't hide behind duty. You didn't mourn me long enough to even check if I was really dead."
Rowan's voice softened. "I'm sorry, Isolde. I should've done more. I know that now."
She spun back to him, her eyes blazing. "Sorry doesn't fix it. Sorry doesn't give me back five years. Sorry doesn't undo the fact that you let them call me barren and useless while I was bleeding out in a hut."
Rowan flinched, her words were a slap. "I didn't know," he said. "If I'd known you were alive, I would've—"
"What?" Isolde cut him off. "Come for me? Fought for me? Don't lie to yourself. You were ready to marry Elsinore last night. You didn't even wait to see my body."
Rowan's face hardened. "You don't know what it was like. The court was watching, waiting for me to break. I had to keep House Thorne strong. Elsinore was—"
"Convenient," Isolde finished, her voice cold. "She was right there. Available. Ready to step into my place. And you let her."
Rowan took a step closer, his voice low. "I didn't want her. I don't love her. It's politics, Isolde. You know how this works."
"Do I?" she asked, her tone mocking. "Because I thought marriage meant something to you. I thought I meant something."
"You did," Rowan said, his voice breaking. "You still do."
Isolde froze, her heart pounding. She hated how those words hit her, how they stirred something she'd tried to bury. She shook her head, stepping back. "Don't say that. Because I don't care anymore."
"Isolde, please. I'm trying to make it right," Rowan said. "That's why I had you moved to the Lord's wing. I wanted you to have a proper room, not that servant's closet Elsinore stuck you in."
Isolde laughed, sharp and bitter. "You think a better room fixes this? You think a bed with silk sheets makes up for five years of exile? You're pathetic."
Rowan's face tightened, but he didn't back down. "I'm not trying to fix it with a room. I'm trying to show you I'm not your enemy. I want to understand what happened to you."
"What happened?" Isolde said, her voice rising. "I was attacked. My convoy was ambushed, my guards killed. I crawled out of a wrecked carriage and nearly died in the woods. A stranger saved me, patched me up. I spent weeks learning to walk again, and when I did, I found out you'd annulled our marriage and burned my crest. That's what happened."
Rowan's eyes darkened, his hands clenching again. "Who attacked you? Tell me, and I'll find them."
Isolde stared at him, her anger flaring. "You think you can convince me you care now? No. I don't trust you will do that. You're only asking because I'm standing here, calling you out."
"I care," Rowan said, his voice rough. "I never stopped caring. I just didn't know you were alive."
"Stop it," Isolde snapped, stepping closer, her finger jabbing at his chest. "You don't get to play the grieving husband now. You let Elsinore take my place. You moved on, so keep moving on."
Rowan grabbed her hand, not hard, but enough to stop her. "I didn't want to forget you," he said, his voice persistent and urgent. "I still dream about you. Every night, Isolde."
She yanked her hand free, her heart racing. "Don't touch me," she said, her voice shaking. "You lost that right when you signed those papers."
Rowan's face fell, but he didn't step back. "I'm not the same man I was. I made mistakes, and I'm trying to fix them. Let me help you now."
"Help me?" Isolde laughed again, colder this time. "You want to help me? Then stay out of my way. I don't need you, Rowan. I have allies, resources, and the truth. I'm here to take back what's mine, not to beg for your pity, not so called help."
Rowan's jaw tightened. "I'm not pitying you. I'm trying to understand why you're here, why now. What do you want, Isolde?"
"I want my life back," she said, her voice hard. "My title, my dowry, my dignity. And I want everyone who betrayed me to pay for it."
"Including me?" Rowan asked, his voice quiet.
Isolde met his eyes, unflinching. "Especially you."
The words hung between them, heavy and final. The fountain's trickle was the only sound in the garden.
Rowan opened his mouth to speak, but Isolde didn't give him the chance. "Don't," she said. "You made your choices, and I'm making mine."
She turned to leave, her cloak swirling behind her. Rowan reached out, his voice urgent. "Isolde, wait—"
"No," she snapped, spinning back. "You don't get to tell me what to do anymore. You gave that up when you gave me up."
Rowan's hand dropped, his face a mix of guilt and frustration. "I'm not your enemy," he said again, quieter.
Isolde didn't answer. She stomped down the gravel path, her boots loud against the stones. Her anger burned hot, drowning out the part of her that wanted to believe him.
She didn't trust him, didn't trust his reasons for the new room or his sudden concern. He was playing a game, just like Elsinore, and she wasn't going to fall for it.
As she reached the garden's edge, she glanced back. Rowan stood by the fountain, watching her go, his hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, she remembered the man he used to be—the one who'd held her in these gardens, who'd promised to never let her go. But that man was gone, and so was she.
So she turned away and kept walking, her heart pounding.
She had work to do, allies to contact, plans to set in motion. Rowan's words, his touch, his guilt, they were distractions she couldn't afford.
But as she climbed the stairs to her new quarters, a small part of her wondered why it felt like he was hiding something.