The next day Isadora stood in front of her wardrobe like a prisoner facing execution.
"I have nothing to wear," she declared flatly.
From the bed, her maid lifted yet another gown. "You have seventeen dresses, milady."
"Exactly. And not one says I'm charming, mysterious, and not here to be pushed into royal marriage."
"Perhaps this one says: I didn't trip on the palace steps and cry in the gardens afterward," the maid offered helpfully, holding up a soft lavender dress.
Isadora groaned and flopped onto the bed face-first. "I'm going to humiliate myself."
A knock came at the door before Celeste entered, already dressed in her usual pristine fashion. She took one look at the chaos of fabrics and sighed softly. "You're not preparing for battle, Isadora."
"I feel like I am," she muttered into the bedsheets. "But instead of swords and shields, it's teacups and expectations."
Celeste sat at the edge of the bed, smoothing her daughter's hair. "You'll be fine. You're clever, you're strong, and believe it or not, you're likable."
Isadora peeked up. "Really?"
Celeste smiled. "Barely. But enough."
That got a reluctant laugh out of her.
After much back-and-forth, they finally settled on a gown. It was elegant but simple, soft blue with silver threading at the sleeves—nothing too flashy, but not forgettable. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid draped over her shoulder, with small pearls tucked between strands.
By the time the carriage pulled up to the palace, Isadora's stomach was doing flips. The grand hall seemed even more intimidating in daylight, its polished floors and golden accents making everything feel too clean, too sharp.
She was led to the garden courtyard where Prince Alaric was waiting.
And to her surprise, he didn't look like a polished royal figure out of a portrait.
He was sitting casually on a stone bench, a book in hand and his dark hair slightly tousled by the breeze. When he looked up, a slow smile tugged at his lips—not smug, not formal. Just… warm.
"Lady Isadora," he said, standing to greet her. "You came."
"You sound surprised."
"A little," he admitted. "Court rumors said you might show up with a sword."
"I asked. They wouldn't let me."
He laughed, and the tension in her chest eased just a little.
"I thought we could walk," he said, gesturing to the path ahead. "Unless you'd prefer to sit and exchange formal pleasantries for the next hour."
"Please, let's walk. If I hear one more lecture about court posture, I may run screaming into the hedge maze."
"Fair warning, I've gotten lost in there before. Took two guards and a very annoyed gardener to find me."
She raised an eyebrow. "A prince getting lost in his hedge maze?"
"I was seven. It was a dark time."
Isadora smiled, genuinely this time, and began walking beside him. As the palace faded behind them and the garden surrounded them with blooms and birdsong, she began to think… maybe this wouldn't be as terrible as she feared.
Maybe.
The garden path curved through rose-laced arches and marble statues before opening into a quiet tea pavilion surrounded by delicate fountains. A silver tray was already waiting for them, tea steaming in porcelain cups, with dainty biscuits on fine plates.
Isadora took a seat across from Prince Alaric, still unsure if she should feel comfortable or on guard. He didn't act like the others at court—yet there was something about the way he watched her, as if every smile came with an extra layer she hadn't yet learned to read.
"Do you like it here?" he asked, pouring the tea for her with practiced ease.
"The palace?" she replied, accepting the cup. "It's… intimidating."
He smiled. "That's the point. It was designed to make people feel small."
"That's very honest of you."
"I find it's easier to be honest when you already have everything to lose."
His words lingered in the air between them for a moment before he added, "But I hope you don't feel small. You don't seem the type to be cowed by chandeliers and crown polish."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was."
They sipped in companionable silence for a few moments, the warm breeze curling through the pavilion. Isadora found herself relaxing if only a little.
Then Alaric's gaze shifted, more calculating than before.
"Can I speak plainly, Lady Isadora?"
"I'd prefer it."
"You've had… encounters with Duke Lucien D'Aragon."
The name hit the air like a dropped stone. Isadora carefully set her cup down, pulse flickering in her throat. "We've spoken briefly. Why?"
Alaric leaned back, folding his hands. "He's dangerous."
"To who?"
"To everyone. Including you."
There was no jest in his tone now, no warmth in his expression. Just cold sincerity.
"He's a weapon," Alaric continued, "sharp and barely restrained. People at court like to call him a hero, but they forget that heroes often leave bodies in their wake. He's loyal to the king, yes—but that doesn't mean he plays by anyone's rules. Or that he's trustworthy."
"You're speaking from experience?" Isadora asked carefully.
"I'm speaking from years of watching the man. From knowing what he's capable of. And what he's done."
She didn't respond. Not immediately.
Because behind his words, behind that careful concern, she could feel the quiet warning. Maybe even a challenge.
"I appreciate your honesty," she said finally.
Alaric leaned forward, lowering his voice just slightly. "I'm not trying to frighten you, Isadora. I just want you to be careful. Trust is currency here, and you shouldn't give it lightly. If you ever feel… unsure, come to me."
She met his eyes. There was charm there—but something else too. Possessiveness, maybe. Expectation.
"I'll remember that," she said, taking another sip of tea to keep from saying anything more.
Because for now, it was all starting to feel like a very, very dangerous game.
The wind howled across the ravine, sweeping dust over the rows of tents and flickering torches. Lucien stood at the edge of the rocky outcrop, overlooking the valley where the enemy was gathering. Campfires sparked in the distance like scattered embers, faint and watchful.
Behind him, the camp stirred to life. Orders barked. Blades sharpened. Armor strapped on. The final preparations before the war.
He adjusted the leather strap across his shoulder, the weight of his sword familiar and grounding. His crimson eyes scanned the horizon as if trying to read the enemy's next move in the way the smoke curled toward the clouds.
Commander Rane approached, gaunt and weathered, with a fresh map rolled under his arm.
"They've reinforced the northern ridge. Twenty more archers by sunrise," Thorne said grimly. "Looks like they're waiting us out."
Lucien didn't look away from the view. "Cowards usually do."
"They're not stupid, though. They're positioning like they expect you to strike at dawn."
"I will,"
Rane grunted. "Figures."
Lucien finally turned, gaze sharp beneath the shadows of his dark cloak. "We can't let them linger. Every day we delay gives them time to regroup."
"And what about our men? They've been running drills for days without real sleep."
"They'll rest after victory."
Silence stretched between them. The commander had served under Lucien long enough to know that arguing was a waste of breath—but still, the concern was there, etched in his frown.
"You've got that look again," Rane muttered.
Lucien raised a brow. "What look?"
"The 'I'm going to win this battle even if I bleed out doing it' look."
Lucien smirked faintly. "Better me than someone who won't."
Before Rane could argue again, a scout arrived—breathless, dust clinging to his cloak.
"My lord, a message," the scout panted, holding out a sealed note. "From the capital. Marked urgent."
Lucien took it, eyes narrowing at the seal—the Queen's insignia.
He opened it quickly. His eyes moved across the words. A moment passed.
Then he folded it, slowly, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his armor.
Thorne watched him. "Bad news?"
Lucien's expression didn't shift. "No. Just politics."
A gust of wind tore through the valley. In the distance, a war horn echoed—low and hollow, like thunder far away.
Back in the palace as Isadora stepped away from the tea room, The halls of the palace shimmered with golden sunlight ,the soft click of her heels echoing faintly across the marble floors. Her thoughts were still tangled in Prince Alaric's strange, pointed remarks about Duke Lucien. Something about the way he'd spoken—so smooth, so confident—left a strange feeling in her chest.
She turned into a quieter hallway, hoping for a moment to collect herself before the carriage ride home.
That's when she heard it.
Voices. Low, urgent.
She slowed, peering around the edge of a grand column just in time to hear someone—Prince Alaric?—say sharply, "This is the only chance."
The words sliced through the air like a blade.
Before she could hear more, a maid appeared from behind her with a small, polite cough. "Milady, your carriage is ready."
Isadora jumped slightly, quickly turning toward the voice. "Oh. Yes. Of course."
As she followed the maid down the hall, her heart thudded with unease. She glanced back once, but the voices had already faded into silence.
She didn't know what "chance" he had meant. Or who he had been speaking to.
But something wasn't right.
And she couldn't shake the feeling away.