The ballroom had not grown quieter.
It had grown deliberate.
Isolde sensed the shift before she consciously named it—the subtle recalibration that came after novelty faded and judgment began. The first glances had been curious, the second cautious. Now came the third look: intent.
She stood near the edge of the dance floor, a half-step removed from the densest clusters of nobility, her posture relaxed but alert. She did not chase conversation. She allowed it to come to her.
And it did.
A pair of nobles approached under the pretense of greeting, their smiles polite, eyes keen. Another lingered within hearing distance, pretending interest in the musicians. A third joined moments later, glass in hand, clearly drawn by the invisible gravity gathering around her.
Isolde inclined her head in acknowledgment, neither encouraging nor dismissive.
"So," one of them said lightly, "Lysoria teaches its princesses composure as a matter of survival?"
