The carriage did not rattle.
That was the first thing Isolde noticed.
The road beneath them was stone-laid and meticulously maintained, the suspension engineered to soften even deliberate turns. Silk curtains filtered the light without obscuring it. A tray of warm tea rested securely in its holder, untouched.
No chains.
No guards inside.
And yet the knowledge pressed against her ribs with unrelenting clarity:
I am not free. Isolde thought.
Isolde sat with her hands folded loosely in her lap, posture relaxed, gaze attentive. She marked the turns they took, the direction of the sun, the cadence of hoofbeats outside. She listened to the language spoken between escorts—formal, disciplined, consistent.
This was not a bandit kingdom.
This was a state that planned.
