The capital woke to whispers.
They spread faster than the dawn.
From the outer markets to the inner court halls, one truth traveled in hushed voices and sharpened curiosity:
A princess had been attacked.
Blood had been spilled in the Temple gardens.
And a man had nearly died protecting her.
Inside Isolde's palace, the morning felt heavier than the night before.
Servants moved more quietly than usual. Guards stood more rigidly at their posts. Every corridor carried the weight of something unseen but deeply felt.
Fear.
Not panic.
Not yet.
But the quiet understanding that something within the empire had shifted.
Inside her private chambers, Princess Isolde Lysoria stood by the window, watching the pale light of dawn stretch across the palace grounds.
Her expression was composed again.
Controlled.
The tears from the night before had vanished.
Only the memory remained.
Behind her, the chamber doors opened softly.
Marcus Valenor stepped inside.
