The meeting was not at the Vexin lands, nor was it in the capital. It was at a neutral location—a small, nondescript inn at the crossroads of a major trade route. The anonymity of the place suited the Galen merchants, a house that preferred to operate in the shadows of power. Damon, Arion, and Isolde arrived under a light escort, the last of their journey marked by a tense, quiet vigilance.
The representative from the House of Galen, a man named Master Renzo, was already waiting. He was a small man with a neat beard and eyes as sharp as a falcon's. He bowed with a practiced politeness that felt entirely devoid of sincerity, his gaze assessing Damon's worn leather armor and the grim set of his jaw.
"Lord Vexin," Renzo said, his voice as smooth as polished coin. "An honor. We were prepared to come to you, but your message arrived first. What ails the great House of Vexin that they require the aid of humble merchants?"
Damon's jaw tightened at the subtle insult, but he held his tongue. He was not here to trade blows; he was here to save his people. "Master Renzo, the harvest on my lands was poor. We need grain to feed our people through the winter. We have silver, but not enough to cover the price you will ask."
Renzo smiled, a cold, humorless expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Ah, but that is the beauty of trade, my lord. The price is not always paid in coin." His gaze flickered to Isolde, who stood silently beside Damon, her face a mask of careful neutrality.
Arion took a step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "The price is grain, merchant. We are not interested in your games."
Renzo simply chuckled. "And that is why you are a warrior, Captain. You understand the cost of a battle, but not the price of peace." He turned back to Damon. "My lord, we have grain. A great deal of it. But the risk of transporting it to your isolated lands, far from our trading routes... it is a risk we must be compensated for. The king's tax on our trade has been... unreasonable of late."
Damon understood immediately. Renzo wasn't just asking for money; he was asking for protection. The merchants were willing to help, but only if they could use the Vexin's military might to defy the king's overreaching taxation.
"You want my men to protect your trade convoys," Damon stated, his voice flat.
"We want you to ensure our convoys are not... delayed by the Sorran guards," Renzo said, the implication clear. "For every ten convoys you safely see to the border, we will provide enough grain to feed your people for a month. A simple exchange of services. Your strength for our coin."
Damon's mind reeled. This was a clear political challenge to the king's authority. He would be using his military to protect a rival house's assets, essentially undermining the crown's power. It was a line he had never crossed, a step that would bring him from a loyal, if distrusted, subject to an open political adversary.
He looked at Arion, who gave a brief, sharp shake of his head. "It is a trap, brother," his eyes said. "A gilded shackle."
Isolde, however, was still. She had been listening with a stillness born of a lifetime in a court where every word held a hidden meaning. She had seen her brother use veiled threats and subtle manipulations a thousand times. She saw through Renzo's words, past his feigned politeness, to the cold, calculating intelligence beneath. She noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch of his hand, a nervous habit that she had seen on the faces of courtiers who were not entirely truthful.
When Renzo's gaze briefly shifted to her, Isolde took her chance. She met his eyes, a flicker of something he didn't expect on her face. Not fear, but a quiet, sharp intelligence.
"The price of grain in the southern provinces is currently at its lowest point in a decade," she said, her voice a soft, steady murmur. "The harvest there was bountiful. Your risk is not nearly as great as you claim, Master Renzo. You are overstating the challenge for your own gain."
The room fell silent. Renzo's smile vanished, his facade crumbling. Arion looked at Isolde with stunned surprise, and Damon's head snapped around, his eyes wide.
Renzo quickly regained his composure, but the twitch in his hand was now more pronounced. "The cost of transport..." he began, but his argument had lost its power.
Damon, seizing the advantage Isolde had so unexpectedly given him, stepped forward. "The princess is right," he said, his voice now confident and firm. "We will protect your convoys, but not at the price you've demanded. We will protect a single convoy, for a month's worth of grain. And our agreement will be private, and known only to us."
The negotiation continued, but the power had shifted. Master Renzo, outmaneuvered by a woman he had assumed was nothing but a fragile doll, was now forced to bargain on equal footing. An agreement was eventually reached, far more favorable to the Vexin than the merchants had intended.
Later that night, in the quiet of their temporary chambers, Damon found Isolde sitting by the fire, her hands clasped in her lap.
"How did you know?" he asked, his voice full of a genuine awe. "About the harvest in the south?"
Isolde looked up, a small, tentative smile on her lips. "In the palace, knowledge is power," she said simply. "My brother kept me from the court, but he never thought to hide the royal ledgers. I read them in secret. I learned to look for the things that people did not want others to see."
Damon sat down opposite her, his gaze intense. "You were not just a prisoner," he said softly. "You were learning to survive. To see the truth behind the masks."
Isolde's smile faded, but a new light was in her eyes—the light of a woman who was no longer just a pawn. "I saw many things, my lord," she said. "I saw a kind of cruelty I did not understand, and a kind of power that had nothing to do with swords. I saw a need for people who could see things that others could not."
Damon reached out, his hand hovering over hers, a silent offer of connection. Isolde, for the first time, did not flinch. She watched his hand and then, slowly, placed her own on top of his. The touch was a silent vow. He was not just the warrior who would save her; she was not just the princess who needed saving. They were a team. And together, perhaps they could survive this game.