Later in the evening Isadora sat curled into the corner of a window seat, a thick book resting open on her lap. The gilded spine read "Foundations of the Kingdom: A Noble History", but so far, it had been ninety percent battles, bloodlines, and a shocking number of executions over garden territory disputes.
She squinted at a passage about a duke who declared war because someone trimmed his hedge too short.
"People here need hobbies," she muttered, flipping the page with a sigh.
The estate was tranquil today—Celeste had gone to the greenhouse, and the Earl was in his study. Isadora had taken the opportunity to sneak off and read in peace, even if the subject matter made her question the sanity of the nobility.
Just as she reached a paragraph involving a scandalous duel over a teacup, the door creaked open. A maid stepped inside, clutching a navy blue envelope sealed with an ornate golden crest.
"A letter for Lady Celeste," she said softly, eyes darting toward Isadora. "From the palace."
Isadora perked up immediately. "The palace?" She set the book aside, curiosity winning over dry historical drama. "Should I take it to her?"
Before the maid could answer, Celeste appeared in the hallway, her expression unreadable. "No need. I'll take it."
She accepted the letter with a calm, practiced hand—but Isadora noticed how her fingers briefly tightened around the seal. Celeste turned it over once, then quietly walked to the nearest sitting room with Isadora following close behind.
Celeste broke the seal and read in silence. After a long pause, she finally spoke.
"It's an invitation," she said. "From Her Majesty the Queen. She wants us to visit the palace tomorrow."
Isadora blinked. "Wait—us, as in me too?"
Celeste gave a small nod. "Yes. You'll need to dress appropriately."
Isadora opened her mouth, then shut it again. The Queen? She hadn't even wrapped her head around dukes and earls, and now she was being summoned by the monarch herself?
"What… what does she want with us?" Isadora asked, wary.
Celeste didn't answer right away. She folded the letter carefully, her expression pensive. "I suspect it's about an old promise. One I never thought would come to light."
The next day arrived faster than Isadora would've liked.
One minute she was trying to make sense of the Queen's sudden interest, the next she was being fitted into yet another gown—this one softer, pale lilac with pearl buttons and a fitted waist that didn't allow for deep breathing.
By the time the carriage rolled into the palace courtyard, her nerves were a tangled mess of speculation, caffeine withdrawal, and a growing suspicion that this meeting wasn't just about pleasantries.
The palace was, in a word, intimidating. Grand halls lined with white marble and towering pillars stretched endlessly before them. Every step echoed, and every servant seemed trained to move like shadows.
Isadora stayed close to Celeste, forcing herself to breathe evenly, act normal, and not touch anything that looked expensive. The Queen's attendant led them through a long corridor, then into a private chamber adorned with soft gold drapes and delicate rose carvings along the walls.
Queen Evelyne sat near the window, her posture elegant yet commanding. Her pale-blue gown shimmered like moonlight, and her crown—more delicate than Isadora expected—glinted with subtle diamonds.
"Lady Celeste," the Queen greeted, rising just enough from her seat. "And this must be your daughter."
Celeste bowed her head respectfully. Isadora mirrored the motion—awkwardly, but she managed not to fall.
"Yes, Your Majesty. This is my daughter, Lady Isadora."
The Queen's eyes lingered on her, thoughtful, curious. "Strange," she murmured, "that I've never met her before."
Celeste's lips curved in a soft, diplomatic smile. "She was unwell for some time and had to be sent far from the capital to recover. The healers said it was best. But she's well now… though she's proven to be quite a handful."
There was a note in her tone—gentle, but pointed. One that subtly said, I kept her away from court for a reason.
Queen Evelyne hummed thoughtfully, her gaze drifting to Isadora again. "She certainly doesn't look fragile now."
"She's stronger than most assume," Celeste replied.
The Queen said nothing for a moment, then gestured to the chairs nearby. "Please. Sit."
They did.
What followed was light conversation—surface-level talk about the state of the capital, recent festivals, and noble gatherings. But there was an undercurrent, something Celeste picked up on.
And then, just as they were rising to take their leave, the Queen spoke again—almost casually.
"Lady Celeste… do send your daughter to the palace tomorrow."
Celeste blinked. "Your Majesty?"
"I think it's time she met the prince. If they find they share… interest, we can revisit the promise made years ago."
There it was. The reason for this whole meeting.
Celeste smiled tightly, her hand tightening slightly around Isadora's. "As you wish."
The moment they stepped out of the Queen's chambers and the heavy doors shut behind them, Isadora exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for an hour.
"What. Was. That?" she hissed under her breath as they walked down the long corridor. "Was that what I think it was? Because it sounded like—"
"A proposal?" Celeste finished flatly, keeping her voice low. "A very veiled, very polite suggestion toward one, yes."
Isadora blinked at her. "Are you serious right now? Since when was there a 'promise' between you and the royal family about me?"
Celeste sighed, finally slowing her pace. "Years ago, before you came into my life, there was a promise made… It was more like court gossip at the time. A vague agreement, nothing set in stone. I didn't think it would ever be brought up again."
"And now it is being brought up. Loud and clear."
"I know." Celeste glanced at her. "Which is why you're going to the palace tomorrow. Alone."
Isadora stopped walking. "What?"
"She wants to see how the two of you interact. Whether there's any interest. And if there isn't, well, that's that."
"And if there is?"
Celeste's expression turned unreadable. "Then you'll have to decide what you want, Isadora."
"I barely know him."
"That's the whole point of tomorrow."
They reached the carriage in silence, Isadora's thoughts spiraling faster than she could catch them. A potential engagement to Prince Alaric? A Queen's promise? This wasn't just palace gossip anymore—it was suddenly her reality.
And she wasn't sure if it felt more like a dream or a trap.
The scent of steel and oil lingered in the air.
Lucien stood before the wide window of his study, the early light of dawn casting a pale silver glow across the room. His armor rested on a stand beside him—polished, precise, waiting. Outside, the courtyard buzzed with activity: soldiers being briefed, horses saddled, and final orders dispatched to various fronts. War had its rhythm, and Lucien knew it well.
"Your armor's ready, Your Grace," came the voice of his steward, Roland, entering with a respectful nod.
Lucien didn't turn around. "Any word from the border?"
"The scouts returned. Movement near the eastern ridge. Small, but coordinated. They might be testing our defenses."
Lucien's jaw tightened the faintest flicker of his crimson eye-catching the morning light in the windowpane. "Then they'll get their answer soon."
Roland hesitated. "Will you be riding out with the men?"
Lucien finally turned, his expression calm but sharp. "Of course."
As Roland helped him into his armor, Lucien's mind wasn't entirely on the battlefield. It wandered briefly—to a girl with a wild tongue and flushed cheeks, holding a flower like it was a sword.
Ridiculous.
He didn't know who she was, and he didn't intend to find out.
Not now.
Not when war was on the horizon.
"Have the men prepared by sundown," Lucien said coolly, sliding on his gloves. "We ride at first light."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Lucien picked up his sword, tested its weight, and nodded once. Then, without another word, he left the study—cloak sweeping behind him, a storm gathering in his silence.
The winds sweeping through the valley carried the heavy scent of rain and blood—both past and inevitable. Duke Lucien D'Aragon stood at the edge of a high ridge, his crimson cloak billowing behind him as he surveyed the land stretched below. The enemy hadn't made a move yet, but the silence itself was telling. Too calculated. Too patient.
Behind him, the command tent rustled as a group of armored men gathered around a map-laden table. Steel clinked as they straightened at his approach.
"Report," Lucien said, voice low and sharp.
Commander Rane, an older man with a greying beard and sharp eyes, stepped forward. "Their numbers have doubled in the past week. We've confirmed movement along the southern ridge, but they're avoiding confrontation for now."
"Cowards don't wait unless they're planning something," Lucien muttered. His single visible eye narrowed. "What's their supply route?"
"We believe they're receiving aid from the northern pass," another commander added. "Local scouts spotted caravans—unmarked, but too frequent to be a coincidence."
Lucien studied the map, his gloved fingers brushing through the mountain road. "Cut that off. I want it burned before nightfall."
"Yes, Your Grace."
There was a brief silence, and then Commander Rane hesitated. "And… what of the court's request to delay engagement?"
Lucien didn't even look up. "Ignore it."
"But the royal council—"
"Is not on this battlefield." His voice turned cold. "They weren't there when we buried our men last winter. They won't be here if we fail."
The commanders exchanged glances but said nothing. Lucien's reputation didn't just come from victories—it came from doing what others feared. From leading charges, no sane man would attempt. From standing exactly where he was now: between a kingdom and its collapse.
"The men are restless," Rane said after a beat. "They've heard the enemy has strange weapons. Unnatural ones."
Lucien looked up slowly. "Then we'll show them our monsters."
He turned, cloak snapping behind him as he walked toward his horse.
"Prepare the signal," he called out. "If they want a war, we'll give them one."