Isolde drowns out their conversation as they continue to converse off to the side. In this small moment of silence she can feel the tension in her back turn into fatigue, she feels drained. She secretly prayed the rest of the event would go quietly and smoothly.
"Your Grace," Isolde froze, she knew that voice it made her stomach drop and cortisol levels shoot through the roof. It was Rose.
Rose's voice carries like a dagger's edge, smooth but unmistakably dangerous. She steps into view, her gown of deep blue trimmed with silver filigree rustling softly as she moves. Her smile is practiced, her gaze sharp as she curtsies, just a fraction lower than necessary. "How lovely you look tonight," she says, her words sweet and poisoned. "The emeralds become our new Princess. They catch the light so beautifully."
Isolde notices the way she watches her—calculating, measuring. Her attention flicks to Elynor's hand resting on Isolde's back, and something unreadable crosses her face.
