The palace corridors were loud only to those who mattered.
Laughter drifted like perfume—soft, careless, indulgent. Silk brushed marble. Rings clicked against crystal goblets. The inner wing of the Golden Diadem was alive with the easy cruelty of people who believed the night existed for their amusement.
Princess Isolde walked through them unnoticed.
She moved slowly, deliberately out of step, her gaze lowered just enough to appear uncertain. When spoken to, she responded a heartbeat too late. When asked a question, she answered incorrectly—never enough to insult, never enough to provoke correction. Just enough to confirm what everyone already believed.
That she was dull as rumors say.
"Is that one of the empress' daughters?" a maid whispered, not bothering to lower her voice.
"The youngest. The quiet one." another maid replied. "Oh. I forgot she existed."
Isolde's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. She let her shoulders round, let her fingers fidget at the hem of her sleeve like a nervous child's. Her long bangs cover mostly of her face.
Her mother's court had taught her well—taught her that invisibility was a kind of armor, if worn long enough.
They spoke freely around her because she was harmless. Rumors say she was dull and not intelligent, unlike her father that is a famous scholar.
That was the lie that kept her alive.
"…the scholar was foolish," a courtier murmured nearby, wine-heavy breath brushing the air. "A low baron, thinking affection would protect him."
"Affection?" another scoffed. "For someone so… favored? It was inevitable."
Poison, someone said. Quietly. Efficiently.
Isolde did not react. She counted her steps instead. Twelve from the column to the archway. Four more to the turn where the light thinned. She memorized voices, inflections, the careless confidence of people who had never needed to fear consequences.
They spoke of death the way others spoke of weather.
She passed them, bowed when required—too low, too slow—and continued on.
No one stopped her.
No one ever did.
A servant found her near the western passage, where the gold leaf thinned and the torches burned lower. He was young, shaking, eyes darting as if the walls themselves might be listening.
"Your Highness," he said, and then corrected himself hastily, "Princess—Princess Isolde."
He did not meet her eyes.
"Yes?" she asked, softly. She tilted her head the wrong way, as if confused by the interruption.
He swallowed. "You are… requested. Immediately."
That was all.
No honorific. No formal seal. No explanation.
Isolde noted what he did not say.
Not summoned by the Empress. Not ordered by the Council. No witnesses lingering nearby to confirm the command.
It was private and quite dangerous.
Her pulse did not quicken. Her father had taught her long ago that fear was useful only when controlled.
"Where?" she asked.
The servant hesitated. That was answer enough.
She followed him anyway.
They parted at the threshold of a familiar door—dark wood, iron handle worn smooth by years of use. The servant fled the moment she touched it, as if proximity alone were a risk.
Isolde stood alone.
For a moment, she pressed her palm flat against the door, grounding herself in the texture of it. Then she entered.
The study smelled wrong.
Not of ink and parchment and old leather, but of something sharp beneath it—bitter, metallic, clean in the way only poisons ever were. The lamps were lit too brightly, their flames steady, betraying the careful hand that had prepared this room for death.
Lord Albrecht Lysander lay on the couch near the window, propped carefully against cushions. His breathing was shallow but controlled, each inhale measured as if he were rationing the air itself.
He smiled when he saw her.
"Ah," he said softly. "You came alone."
"Of course," Isolde replied. Her voice did not shake. She crossed the room with unhurried steps, though every instinct screamed at her to run, to kneel, to beg the world to reverse itself.
She sat beside him and took his hand. It was cold.
She catalogued the signs automatically—discoloration at the lips, the rigidity in his fingers, the faint tremor beneath the skin. The poison had been chosen with care. Something slow enough to allow goodbyes. Something that mimicked illness until it was far too late.
"Father, you were poisoned," she said.
He laughed weakly. "Always observant. You should let the court see that sometime."
"They would not believe me," she said, and he nodded. "No. They would not."
Her throat tightened, but she forced the feeling down. There would be time later—if there was time at all.
"Who?" she asked.
He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, there was no fear there. Only resignation.
"It does not matter," he said. "That is not important now."
"This is important!" Isolde replied, tears falling from her eyes.
He studied her then—not as a father looking at his child, but as a scholar appraising a mind he had shaped carefully over years of quiet instruction.
"My sweet angel." he said. "You have learned well, better than I hoped. You have been invisible to their eyes."
Her fingers curled around his. "Why?" she asked again. "You were careful. You always were. But why were you targeted?"
He turned his head slightly, toward the window, where the palace lights glittered like a crown made of stars.
"Because I was loved," he said.
The words struck harder than any accusation.
"They did not poison me because I was weak," Albrecht continued, his voice steady despite the effort it cost him. "They poisoned me because your mother listened when I spoke."
Isolde's breath caught. Only for a moment—but he noticed.
"The Empress," he said, gently. "Your mother. She valued my counsel. Not because of my title—baron, scholar, inconvenience—but because I did not lie to her."
He shifted, wincing as pain rippled through him. Isolde tightened her grip, grounding him.
"In a court where power is inherited through daughters," he said, "men learn to rule in subtler ways. Influence. Access. Proximity."
She understood. She had always understood.
"They feared me," he said. "Not for what I was, but for what I represented. A man without pedigree shaping imperial thought. With a daughter raised outside their control."
Her chest ached.
"They believed," he went on, "that affection might turn into favoritism. That my closeness to the Empress would one day reflect upon you."
"On the crown princess selection," Isolde murmured.
"Yes." her father replied.
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. The succession was not yet decided, but lines had already been drawn. Princesses groomed. Factions aligned. Fathers whispering behind thrones they could never sit upon.
Isolde had been invisible by design. Her father thought her that being invisible could protect her from vultures that wanted the throne.
Albrecht smiled faintly. "They could tolerate my ideas. They could not tolerate my presence."
"And Mother?" Isolde asked, quietly.
He did not answer immediately.
"She rules an empire," he said at last. "And empires are not kind to the things we love."
Understanding settled into Isolde like ice.
"They will say you were careless," she said. "That a low baron overreached."
"They will," he agreed. "And they will move on."
His gaze sharpened. "You must not."
Her fingers trembled despite her will. "I will not forget."
"No," he said. "You must not avenge me."
She looked at him then, truly looked, and the tears she had been holding back burned her eyes.
"They are killing you," she whispered. "They are murderers."
"They upheld a system," he corrected gently. "One that rewards fear and punishes change."
The words pressed into her bones.
"You will be tempted," he said, his voice fading but firm, "to strike back. To seek justice through blood."
Her jaw tightened. "Would that be wrong?"
"Yes," he said simply. "It would be a fleeting feeling of victory."
She stared at him, stunned.
"Revenge satisfies the wound, the pain you are feeling." he continued. "But reform ends the blade."
The room felt too small for the weight of what he was giving her.
"If you reach for the throne," he said, "do not do so for me. Do not do so for anger. Do it to change the laws that made my death reasonable."
His breathing faltered. Isolde leaned closer, resting her forehead against his hand.
"Promise me," he whispered. "Promise me you will not become them."
Tears finally fell, silent and hot against her skin.
"I promise," she said.
Albrecht Lysander smiled, the faintest curve of peace softening his face.
"That," he murmured, "is my clever girl."
The lamps burned steadily. The poison continued its work.
And somewhere beyond the walls of the study, the Golden Diadem slept—unaware that it had just created the woman who would one day reshape it.
The night deepened while the poison worked.
Albrecht Lysander's breathing grew uneven, shallow in a way Isolde recognized too well. The lamps had been trimmed low now, casting long shadows across the study walls. Scrolls lay stacked neatly on the table—unfinished work, interrupted thought.
He reached weakly toward the desk.
"Open the third drawer," he said.
Isolde obeyed. Inside was nothing remarkable at first glance—no jewels, no sealed testament, no confession that could be paraded before the Council. Only a thin leather-bound book, worn at the edges, its pages yellowed from handling.
She lifted it carefully.
"It is not evidence," Albrecht said, anticipating her thoughts. "Not in the way you would want."
"Then what is it?" she asked.
"A map," he replied. "Of how power truly moves."
She flipped through the pages. There were no names written plainly. Only symbols, annotations, patterns. References to laws that had been amended quietly. Records of councils held in private. Notes on which statutes were enforced—and which were ignored.
"You memorized this," she said softly.
"Yes." her father replied.
"And now you want me to?" she asked.
"Yes." he nodded.
Her fingers tightened around the book. "They will look for documents," she said. "They will burn anything they find."
"They already have," he replied. "That is why this survives."
He closed his eyes briefly, gathering what strength remained. "People believe power lives in titles. In armies. In bloodlines."
His eyes opened again, sharp even now. "It lives in procedure. In precedent. In what people accept as normal."
Isolde felt something settle inside her—cold, heavy, deliberate.
"Individuals fall," he continued. "But systems endure. If you strike at a man, another will rise in his place."
She nodded. He had taught her this lesson when she was barely old enough to read.
"You must learn how to change the rules," he said. "Quietly, slowly, and legally."
"And if the law itself is unjust?" she asked.
"Then you make them defend it," he said. "In public."
She swallowed.
"This is your inheritance," he said. "Not my name. Not my title. Just this."
She bowed her head over the book—not deeply, not theatrically, but with genuine reverence.
"I understand," she said.
"I know," he replied.
The night pressed close around them.
For a long time, neither spoke. The palace was quiet at this hour, its vast machinery stilled, as if the empire itself were holding its breath.
Isolde broke first.
"Was it worth it?" she asked.
Her voice was steady, but the question was not. "Loving her," she added. "Being loved by her."
Albrecht turned his head slightly to look at her. The lines on his face softened.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
"You knew it would make you a target." Isolde said.
"I did," he agreed. "But I also knew what silence costs."
She closed her eyes. "You told me to stay small, not to attract unwanted attention."
"I told you to stay alive." he said.
"And now?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "Now you must choose when to grow."
Her throat tightened. "I pretended for so long," she said. "Sometimes I wonder if I became what they think I am."
He chuckled softly. "You were never pretending with me."
She looked at him sharply.
"I watched you," he said. "Every lesson. Every hesitation. Every question you did not ask aloud."
His fingers curled weakly around hers. "You are not slow, Isolde. You are careful. That is far more dangerous."
Tears slid down her cheeks before she realized they had fallen.
"I don't want to be dangerous," she whispered.
"I know," he said gently. "That is why you will be."
She laughed once, broken and quiet. "You always did say terrible things so calmly."
He smiled. "It is a scholar's curse."
Her breath hitched. "I don't know how to be without you, father."
He studied her then—not as a dying man, but as a father imprinting memory into bone.
"You know how," he said. "You have always known. You observe and you endure. And when the time comes—you act."
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his hand, breathing him in as if she could anchor him there through will alone.
"I am proud of you," he said.
The words broke something open in her chest.
Not because she had waited to hear them.
But because she had never doubted them.
The poison took its due.
Albrecht's breaths grew farther apart, each one a measured act of will. Isolde counted them without meaning to, the way she once counted steps in palace corridors.
"I will find who did this," she said suddenly. "I will—"
"No," he interrupted.
The word was firm, final.
She lifted her head, eyes blazing. "But they murdered you!"
"They preserved a structure," he said. "One they believe it necessary."
Her hands clenched. "I will make them pay."
He shook his head, just slightly. "That is not your task."
"Then what is?" she demanded, tears streaking her face openly now.
"To end the need for men like me to die quietly," he said.
She stared at him.
"Revenge," he continued, "is a circle. Reform is a line forward."
He coughed, a sharp, painful sound. Isolde steadied him, heart pounding.
"If you rule only to punish," he said hoarsely, "you will become what killed me."
She shook her head. "I won't."
"You must promise," he said.
"I already did." she replied.
"Then hear this," he whispered, his voice barely there now. "Do not hate your mother for surviving."
Isolde froze.
"She is not weak," he said. "She is bound to the throne."
"It is a throne of thorns." Isolde replied.
Understanding cut deeper than anger ever could.
"If you take the crown," he said, "do it to loosen those bindings. Not to trade places. Be the empress, and change this twisted system."
Her grip tightened around his hand.
"I will," she said. "I swear it."
Albrecht exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his face.
"That," he murmured, "is my clever girl."
His breathing stilled.
The silence afterward was absolute.
Isolde remained where she was, unmoving, until the lamps burned low and the palace outside shifted with the approach of dawn.
Then, carefully, she closed his eyes.
Dawn painted the palace in gold.
Isolde walked its corridors alone, her steps unhurried, her face composed. Servants bowed. Courtiers glanced at her and looked away just as quickly.
Word would spread soon.
A low baron had died.
A scholar had fallen ill.
Nothing that required alarm.
She paused at a window overlooking the inner court. The empire stretched beyond it—ordered, gleaming, indifferent.
Her fingers brushed the leather-bound book hidden beneath her cloak.
When a group of courtiers approached, their conversation stilled.
"Princess Isolde," one of them said politely. "Our condolences."
She inclined her head. Too low. Too meek.
"Thank you," she said softly. "He was… kind."
They exchanged looks, satisfied. Harmless grief. No danger there.
As they passed, one murmured, "At least she won't cause trouble."
Isolde waited until they were gone.
Then she straightened.
Her reflection in the glass was calm. It was pale, unremarkable.
But for her it was perfect.
They believed she would mourn quietly.
They believed she would forget.
They were wrong.
The Golden Diadem of Lysoria gleamed above her—heavy, ancient, cruel in its beauty.
And for the first time, Isolde Lysoria allowed herself to imagine it not as a symbol—but as a responsibility she would one day claim.
Not for revenge.
But to ensure no daughter would ever again have to learn silence from poison.