The journey from the capital to the Vexin family lands had been a week-long test of Isolde's endurance. The world she knew of polished stone and delicate silks had given way to an endless expanse of rugged hills and thick forests. The Vexin stronghold was a fortress of rough, unyielding stone, built for war, not for comfort. Yet, to her surprise, the air was clean and the people, though blunt and quiet, moved with a kind of honest purpose she had never seen.
Her days passed in a blur of silent observation. Damon, ever the dutiful lord, was consumed with the affairs of his lands. He trained his knights in the courtyard, oversaw the repairs of the fortress walls, and spoke with the farmers and herders of his domain. He was a man in his element, a natural leader. Isolde remained a ghost in her new home, watching from the high windows, still unsure of her place or her purpose.
One afternoon, a low whimper from the stable caught her attention. Curiosity, a feeling she hadn't allowed herself to feel in years, pulled her down the stone steps. Inside the stable, a young boy held a small, black-and-white border collie, its leg bleeding from a deep gash. Arion, ever the pragmatist, was giving terse instructions to a stable hand, his face a mask of annoyance.
"Get the poultice and the clean cloths," Arion ordered. "And be quick about it."
The boy, his face tear-streaked, looked helplessly at the dog, which was now trembling in his arms. Damon entered the stable, his gaze falling on the injured animal. He knelt beside the boy, his voice low and soothing.
"It will be all right, young Loran," Damon said. "We will fix his leg."
Isolde stood in the shadows, watching. She had never seen an animal tended to before. In the palace, such matters were dealt with by servants far away from the royal family's sight. Damon took the poultice from the stable hand, his large, calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he examined the wound.
"I need a steady hand to hold him," Damon said to Loran. "Can you do it?"
The boy nodded, his grip on the dog tightening. Damon began to clean the wound, but his movements were a little too rough. The dog whimpered again, its leg twitching in pain.
"Easy, boy, easy," Damon murmured.
It was in this moment that Isolde, without thinking, stepped forward. "May I?" she asked, her voice a soft, timid sound that cut through the stable's air.
Damon looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. Arion scoffed from a corner of the stable, but Damon ignored him. "You… you wish to help?" he asked.
"I… yes," she replied, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn't sure why she had spoken, only that she wanted the dog's whimpering to stop.
Damon stood and gestured to the cloths. "We need to clean the wound first. It needs to be very clean."
He handed her a clean cloth. Isolde's hands, so accustomed to doing nothing, felt clumsy and uncertain. She tried to dab at the wound as Damon had done, but her fingers fumbled. The dog gave a sharp bark of pain, and Isolde pulled her hand back as if burned, her face flushing with shame. She had failed at the simplest of tasks. She glanced at Damon, expecting a harsh word, an eye-roll, or the kind of cold, mocking laughter her brother was so fond of.
Instead, Damon knelt beside her. His large hand, the same hand that commanded armies, gently covered hers, guiding it back to the wound.
"Gently," he said, his voice a low, patient murmur against her ear. "The dog is scared. Just like you."
His hand was warm, a solid and comforting weight over hers. He guided her fingers, showing her how to clean the gash with a slow, deliberate touch. He was not patronizing or annoyed. He was simply teaching her, with a patience she had never experienced. He held her hand until she found her rhythm, until the trembling in her fingers subsided.
"Good," he said softly, and he let go.
Isolde continued to clean the wound herself, her movements now slow and confident. The dog, sensing her change, relaxed in Loran's arms. When the wound was clean, she helped Damon apply the poultice, the two of them working together in a quiet, focused collaboration.
When they were finished, the dog lay still and comfortable, its leg bandaged and a gentle sense of calm in the air. Isolde straightened, her hands covered in a mix of blood and herbal paste, a far cry from the delicate cleanliness she was used to. She looked at Damon, her gaze meeting his for the first time without a flinch of fear.
"Thank you," she said, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.
Damon didn't smile, but his eyes held a softness she hadn't seen before. "Thank you, Isolde," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You have a steady hand."
He didn't have to say anything else. The small, quiet moment in the stable, helping a wounded animal, had accomplished what a thousand lavish feasts could not. It was the first step, a fragile and tentative one, but a step all the same. For the first time since her marriage, Isolde felt a glimmer of hope. In the hands of this warrior, she wasn't just a princess or a political pawn—she was a person who could help, who could be a part of a world that, for all its roughness, was beginning to feel a little like home.