And no crown, no council, no law would ever change that.
Isolde slipped away from the dancers.
No one noticed her leave.
She moved through servants' corridors like a shadow, heart hammering.
In her private suite she tore open a locked chest hidden beneath her bed.
Inside lay a slender dagger—the blade black as obsidian, etched with runes that drank light. A relic from the old wars, forged to pierce supernatural flesh and sever the connection between body and soul.
She had brought it as insurance—never truly believing she would need it.
Now she strapped it to her inner thigh beneath her gown, the cold metal kissing skin still flushed from wine and fear.
Then she returned to the ballroom.
The waltz had grown wilder.
Bodies pressed shamelessly.
Aiden stood near the center again, surrounded by women who no longer pretended restraint—laughing, touching, offering themselves with eyes and whispers.
Isolde approached slowly.
