Isabella and the maid stood paralyzed, two statues of disbelief as Matthias burst into the chamber.
He was a specter of frantic urgency, his breath hitching in ragged gasps, his face drained of color. Of all the hours in the world, why this one? Why now?
Isabella's lips parted, but the air in the room seemed too thick for speech. Her voice faltered, caught in the dry hollow of her throat.
"It was... I... she..."
The sentence died unborn; the explanation withered before it could take shape.
Matthias was not listening. Not truly. His gaze was anchored—shackled—to the fragile form he carried in his arms.
In that single, crystalline heartbeat, the world outside that room ceased to exist. The simmering resentment for Isabella, the labyrinth of confusion, the weight of social judgment—all of it vanished.
There was only the girl.
