The carriage rocked slowly, it felt like the palace was waiting.
All this planned for Matrona's arrival, she wore deep black and perhaps even in it she looked beautiful...despite age, it didn't stop her from glowing.
Getting closer she could see the golden gates swang open, this palace was huge but nothing had Isabelle's mind than her plot for revenge.
The carriage rolled to a halt, its black lacquer gleaming under the cold light of torches.
The driver, a silent figure in Mortifer's livery, did not offer a hand. The door was opened instead by a palace guard, his expression as still as carved stone.
Isabelle stepped down, the silver pendant warm beneath her gown.
Her eyes moved around.
The courtyard was vast, paved in gold, surrounded by walls that rose like cliffs into the night.
Before her stretched a broad avenue, flanked by obsidian statues of serpent-kings, leading to the monolithic doors of the throne room.
Two guards, armored in dark plate, stood sentinel.
Without a word, they turned and pushed.
SWIGGG...
The doors swung inward with a deep, resonant groan, like the waking breath of some great beast.
Isabelle entered.
She walked slowly, deliberately, the sound of her steps the only thing breaking the silence of the cavernous hall. Blue-flamed braziers cast long, wavering shadows.
The eyes of the court were upon her—a sea of still, pale faces in the gloom.
At the far end, upon a dais, sat King Mortifer on his obsidian throne.
Even from this distance, she could see the pallor of sickness on him, the dark metal crown sitting heavy on his brow. Yet his presence was undiminished—a figure of chilling, dormant power.
To his right, on a smaller throne of pure jet, sat Tenebrarum. Masked. Motionless.
Isabelle reached the foot of the dais. She gathered her skirts, bent her knees, and bowed her head in a deep, graceful curtsy.
"My king," she said, her voice clear in the waiting silence. "I am honored to be in your presence."
As she rose, her hand—twitched once, fingers curling inward.
A remembered tremor that she was pretending.
She stilled it, lifting her chin to meet the gaze of the king, and the masked prince beside him.
Hoping they did not understand her movements.
"Why didn't your mother come with you?"
King Mortifer's voice cut through the silence, low and resonant, each word heavy with displeasure. To him, Velmara's absence was not an oversight—it was an insult, a subtle refusal to bow in person.
Isabelle met his gaze, her expression a perfect blend of respect and poised innocence.
"Great king, my mother wished nothing more than to stand before you today. She is, however, utterly consumed by the preparations for the wedding." She allowed a deferential smile to touch her lips. "It is happening next week, is it not? She is determined that everything be flawless, a testament to the honor of this union. She is profoundly grateful for this privilege, my king."
She bowed her head again, the picture of a dutiful daughter delivering her queen's regrets.
From his chair among the other princes, Magnus's eyes widened slightly. He had expected a girl—perhaps shy, or hardened by her mother's legend. He had not expected this: a woman of poised grace and clever composure, who could spin a political slight into a show of dedicated homage. A spark of keen interest lit in his gaze. He was liking her confidence immensely, even before a single word had passed between them.
Magnus immediately stood from his chair. He offered a bow to his father before turning to Isabelle, his expression a mix of earnestness and newfound admiration.
"If I may, Father," he said, his voice warmer than the cold hall. "Lady Matrona's journey was long. Perhaps judgment on her mother's duties can wait. I would be honored to show her to the gardens—somewhere with sunlight and air—before she is questioned like a petitioner."
It was a bold move, a gentle defiance that positioned him as her protector.
Mortifer's jaw tightened. This was not respect; it was evasion. He wanted to peel back the girl's courteous smile and see if she was truly Velmara's daughter or just her polished, empty show.
But on behalf of his son's first show of initiative—and the political need to appear gracious—the king gave a slow, conceding nod.
Magnus stepped forward, a tentative smile touching his lips as he offered his hand. Isabelle bowed her head slowly, a picture of demure acceptance, before placing her fingers in his. As she turned, she felt it—the weight of Tenebrarum's gaze, a silent, penetrating force following their every step.
This was the role she had to play: the grateful bride-to-be, perhaps even charmed. But the prince she needed to enchant was the one still sitting silently on the throne of jet, watching his brother lead his prize away.
Tenebrarum rose from his throne.
The movement was fluid, silent, like a shadow detaching itself from a greater dark. His black clothing seemed to drink the light from the room.
"Father," his voice cut through the quiet hall, low and edged. "You should not have let them leave. I do not trust her. Velmara's absence is not oversight—it is a message. She holds this alliance in contempt."
He took a step as if to follow, his intention to intercept clear.
A loud, mocking laugh rang out before the king could respond. Tiberius, lounging in his chair with arrogant ease, waved a dismissive hand.
"Brother, please. Must you always see a dagger in every offered hand?" He smirked, his eyes glinting with provocation.
"I do not wish to argue with you, but why do I feel you're simply jealous? Not everything in this court has to be about you and your… suspicions. Magnus looks happy with her. Must you always be the joy killer?"
"Jealous?"
A low, mirthless sound escaped Tenebrarum—a laugh that was sharp and hollow even through the mask. It wasn't amusement; it was a blade being slowly drawn.
"Only a fool blinded by his own games would mistake vigilance for envy." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. Each word was precise, cold, and carried to every corner of the silent hall. "But I will assume you love acting childish. I do hope you grow up someday… before your naivety gets your head off."
His gaze, unseen but felt, lingered on Tiberius just long enough to let the insult and the warning settle like frost. Then, with a final, dismissive turn of his head, Tenebrarum strode from the dais. His exit was not a retreat; it was a verdict.
The space he left behind felt charged, the echo of his words cutting Tiberius's smirk clean off his face and leaving a stiff, silent anger in its place.
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To be continued...