Isolde returned to the habits that had kept her alive.
At first light, she dismissed her attendants and took refuge in the small study adjoining her chambers—the one her father had once claimed as his own. The room smelled faintly of ink and old parchment. Dust gathered in the corners where no one thought to clean anymore, as if the place itself had been set aside for thoughts that did not wish to be overheard.
She opened a ledger and laid it flat on the desk.
The action steadied her.
She wrote headings the way she always did when decisions threatened to overwhelm her: advantages, liabilities, timing. The quill moved smoothly at first, scratching out familiar logic.
Raphael Mirecourt — Second Royal Consort
Advantages:
Voluntary loyaltySocial reach unmatched by any rival factionInfluence without coercionA consort chosen, not imposed
She paused.
Chosen.
The word sat there, heavier than the ink that formed it.
Isolde continued.
Liabilities:
Immediate conflict with Princess MireyaEscalation into social warIncreased scrutiny from ValericaTemple suspicion of pleasure over propriety
She added another line, hesitated, then wrote it anyway.
Emotional exposure
Her hand stilled.
This was where the ledger failed her.
Every other entry she could weigh. She could predict reaction, counterreaction, cost. She could map the ways Mireya would respond—public charm sharpened into ridicule, private resentment hardened into intent. She could anticipate how Valerica would use the rivalry as proof of Isolde's supposed weakness. She could already hear Caelia's voice framing desire as indulgence, indulgence as sin.
All of it could be managed.
What she could not calculate was what Raphael had offered without asking to be measured.
She closed her eyes and saw him again as he had stood in her sitting room—unarmored, unafraid, smiling not because he expected a yes, but because he had chosen to tell the truth and walk away.
I don't want power.
I want you.
Isolde exhaled slowly.
Every reason to refuse him was political.
Every reason to accept him was personal.
She wrote one final line beneath the columns, not as a heading, but as a conclusion.
Decision: Accept.
The word did not frighten her.
What frightened her was how calm she felt after writing it.
The palace made certain she did not linger in peace.
By midday, the whispers reached her—not directly, never directly. Information came as it always did, through the mouths of those who thought they were merely repeating harmless things.
"…Princess Mireya has been radiant of late," an attendant remarked to another within Isolde's hearing. "She's been rehearsing with her ladies again."
Another voice followed, lower. "I heard she intends to formalize something soon. After the banquet."
Isolde did not turn.
She moved through the corridor with practiced ease, letting the words trail behind her like a shadow she refused to acknowledge. But she did not ignore them.
Formalize.
The Autumn Banquet had not been an end. It had been a prelude. Mireya's confidence had not broken when Raphael failed to accept her hand—it had merely shifted. A woman like Mireya did not retreat from humiliation. She reframed it.
She will not forgive this quietly, Isolde thought.
And Mireya would not forgive it at all if Raphael chose Isolde instead.
The realization settled with clarity rather than dread. Mireya had already marked her ground. Accepting Raphael would be an open declaration of rivalry—not only romantic, but political. Mireya's strength lay in perception, in the careful shaping of what the court believed to be inevitable.
Isolde would be challenging that inevitability head-on.
She slowed near a window and gazed out over the courtyard, watching servants cross paths, carrying messages that would soon become rumors. This was how wars began here—not with steel, but with smiles sharpened to points.
If I choose him, Isolde thought, I choose the battle.
The thought did not waver.
She turned away from the window and continued on.
Isolde waited until late afternoon to send for Marcus.
When he entered her sitting room, he did so with his usual composure—straight-backed, controlled, eyes alert to every corner. He bowed, then waited without speaking.
She gestured for him to sit.
Marcus hesitated only a fraction before obeying, settling into the chair across from her. The fire between them had been lit low, casting long shadows that softened the edges of the room.
"I've made a decision," Isolde said.
Marcus inclined his head. "I'm listening."
She did not preface it. She did not soften it. She had learned long ago that hesitation only invited doubt.
"I intend to accept Raphael Mirecourt as my second royal consort." she said.
The words hung between them.
Marcus did not react immediately.
He did not tighten his jaw or avert his gaze. He did not interrupt or question. He absorbed the statement the way a soldier absorbed orders—by letting them settle fully before responding.
At last, he spoke. "When?"
"Not yet." Isolde replied.
A small nod. "That's wise."
She studied him, searching for signs—anger, protest, relief. She found none. Only discipline honed to silence.
"You understand what this means," Isolde continued. "For my sister Mireya."
"Yes." he replied.
"And for you." Isolde added.
Marcus met her gaze then, fully. "My position does not change."
Isolde's fingers tightened slightly in her lap. "It will," she said quietly. "Whether we admit it or not."
Marcus said nothing.
She pressed on, compelled now by honesty. "Raphael has no political motive. No demand. No contract."
Marcus's eyes flickered, just once.
"He offered himself freely," Isolde said. "His influence. His loyalty. His… affection."
The word felt strange on her tongue.
"And you," she continued, "stand with me under oath and agreement. You are my ally so that one day you may be free of this place. Free of this role."
The contrast lay bare between them.
Marcus drew a slow breath. "You're asking me if I resent that."
"I'm asking," Isolde said, voice low, "if you think I am making a mistake."
He considered her for a long moment.
"No," Marcus said at last. "I think you're making the right choice."
She waited.
"And I think," he added, carefully, "that choosing someone who wants you for nothing you can give may be the most dangerous thing you've done yet."
"Dangerous for whom?" she asked.
"For you," Marcus replied. "And for anyone who believes they understand you."
Silence followed, heavy but not hostile.
"What would you advise?" Isolde asked finally.
Marcus did not answer at once. When he did, his voice was steady, selfless, stripped of anything that might serve him rather than her.
"Delay the declaration," he said. "Let Princess Mireya move first. She will overreach again—she always does. When you accept Raphael, do it where the court must witness it clearly. Cleanly. Publicly."
He paused.
"Do not give her room to twist the story."
Isolde nodded. "That was my thought as well."
Marcus rose then, returning to his feet as if the conversation had concluded. He bowed—not deeply, but sincerely.
"I will stand where you need me," he said. "As I always have."
As he turned to leave, Isolde felt the weight of what had gone unspoken settle heavily between them.
Raphael would stand beside her because he chose to.
Marcus stood because he had promised—and because one day, he meant to leave.
The door closed behind him.
Isolde remained seated, staring into the fire, aware that the choice she had made would not only reshape the court—
—but the fragile balance within her own walls.
Marcus did not leave the sitting room at once.
He paused just inside the threshold, back straight, hands clasped behind him as if still awaiting orders. Isolde watched the pause and understood it for what it was—not hesitation, but restraint held a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"There is one more thing," Marcus said without turning.
"Yes?" Isolde asked.
"If you accept him publicly," he continued, voice level, "you should do it in a setting Princess Mireya cannot control."
Isolde's gaze sharpened. "You're thinking of the winter audiences."
"Yes. Or a Temple-neutral event. Something overseen by the court at large, not curated by her circle."
She nodded slowly. "That would deny her narrative control."
"It would force her to react," Marcus said. "And not to frame."
Isolde studied him, noting the care with which he spoke—every word bent toward what would protect her, not what would preserve his own standing.
"And if she reacts poorly?" Isolde asked.
Marcus's shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly. "Then the court will see what she truly is."
Silence followed.
Marcus finally turned, meeting Isolde's eyes. For a moment, the general—war-hardened, disciplined—was simply a man standing before a woman whose future no longer revolved around him alone.
"You asked for my counsel," he said. "That is it."
"And your feelings?" Isolde asked quietly.
Marcus's jaw tightened. "My feelings are not relevant."
"They are to me." she asked with eyes searching for the truth.
The admission surprised them both.
Marcus held her gaze for a long moment, then looked away. "I swore to stand with you," he said. "Not to be chosen."
Isolde felt the weight of that settle—an oath built on duty, not desire.
"Go," she said gently.
Marcus bowed once and left, his footsteps steady, unbroken.
Only when the door closed did Isolde allow herself to exhale.
The days that followed confirmed what Isolde already knew.
Princess Mireya moved.
Not openly. Not yet. But the shift was unmistakable. Invitations were extended and rescinded. Seating arrangements at smaller gatherings subtly rearranged themselves. Certain voices grew louder in the salons while others fell conspicuously quiet.
Raphael's name surfaced often—never attached to Isolde, always framed as unfinished business.
"He was simply being courteous," someone would say.
"He hasn't chosen yet," another insisted.
"Princess Mireya would suit him better, socially," a third offered, too eagerly.
Isolde listened and said nothing.
Prince Corvin brought updates each evening, his tone careful. "She's positioning herself as inevitable," he reported. "As if his refusal was merely… delayed."
"Because she believes it was," Isolde replied.
"And you?" Corvin asked.
"I believe inevitability is a myth," Isolde said.
Prince Corvin smiled faintly. "You father would have liked that."
The palace began to hum with anticipation, the quiet before a social storm. Princess Mireya's confidence hardened into insistence. She would not ask Raphael again privately. She would wait—forcing the moment to return to her terms.
Which meant Isolde's delay was already being interpreted.
As uncertainty.
As weakness.
Isolde accepted the misinterpretation.
For now.
That night, Isolde stood at her window long after the lamps had dimmed.
Marcus's words echoed unbidden.
I swore to stand with you. Not to be chosen.
Raphael's voice followed, gentler but no less persistent.
I'll wait. If you'll let me.
Two men. Two forms of loyalty.
One bound by contract and future freedom.
One offered freely, without promise of return.
Isolde pressed her fingers against the cool glass.
Marcus had sacrificed his rank, his command, his reputation—for her cause. His loyalty was disciplined, unwavering, built on shared purpose and mutual respect. He stood beside her because he had chosen survival through service.
Raphael had offered something else entirely.
Joy, perhaps. Intimacy. A warmth she had never learned to wield without fear.
She understood then that accepting Raphael was not a rejection of Marcus.
But it would feel like one.
The realization ached.
Isolde straightened, resolve firming once more. She would not pretend the cost did not exist. She would not pretend Marcus's turmoil was invisible.
But she would not let guilt dictate her crown.
Isolde returned to her desk just before dawn.
The decree lay there still, blank parchment waiting patiently beneath her hand. She picked up the quill, weighed it, then set it down again.
Soon, she promised herself.
But not before Princess Mireya revealed her hand.
Not before the court was forced to witness the choice clearly.
Not before Marcus had time to steady himself—and Raphael time to understand what standing beside her would truly mean.
Isolde folded the parchment and placed it in a drawer she kept locked.
When she rose, the decision was no longer theoretical.
Raphael Mirecourt would be her Second Royal Consort.
Not yet spoken.
Not yet written.
But decided.
Outside her chambers, the palace stirred—servants moving, whispers forming, ambition sharpening its teeth.
Somewhere within those walls, Mireya prepared her next move.
Somewhere else, Raphael waited without pressing.
And somewhere in the quiet space between duty and desire, Marcus held his line—though it now cut closer to the heart than any blade he had ever faced.
Isolde lifted her chin and stepped into the day.
The declaration would come.
And when it did, nothing in Lysoria would remain untouched.