Morning light spread slowly across the inner courtyards of Isolde's palace.
Servants moved quietly through the halls, preparing the day's council reports and correspondence. The palace had begun to settle into a rhythm again after the Temple inspection, though the atmosphere still carried a faint tension—like the echo of a storm that had passed but not entirely disappeared.
Isolde sat at the long council table reviewing a series of military dispatches from the eastern border.
Marcus stood beside the window, reading the same report she had just finished. Raphael lounged comfortably in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace, flipping idly through a book he had no real intention of finishing.
Silvain stood quietly near the table, studying the draft of a policy document Isolde had requested his opinion on the night before.
The calm lasted until the palace steward entered.
The man bowed deeply.
"Your Highness."
Isolde looked up.
"What is it?"
