The sight stole Isabelle's breath away—not from wonder, but from a sharp, resentful ache.
Flowers of impossible color bloomed beneath the false sun, their petals glistening with manufactured dew. A soft, silver glow bathed the winding paths in a serene, almost a miracle. It was a masterpiece of controlled beauty, a lie woven from power.
"It's beautiful," Isabelle said, forcing a smile to her lips. "The palace is… excellent in every detail." The words tasted like ash. She hated it—this perfect, peaceful splendor while, beyond these walls, humans scraped for survival and bled in endless battles these very creatures fueled.
"Oh," Magnus said, pausing as if seeing it for the first time through her eyes. "I'd never seen the place as beautiful until now." He turned to her, his gaze softening. "I never expected you to look so… young. So radiant."
His hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing her cheek with a reverence that made her skin prickle. His touch was warm, deliberate. "You are beautiful, my lady," he murmured, his voice thick with a dawning, earnest passion. Gently, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering near the pulse at her temple.
He's so simple, Isabelle thought, her mind cold and clear amidst the garden's false poetry.
He's so simple, Isabelle thought, her mind cold and clear amidst the garden's false poetry. How can he be this enchanted, this fast? He's falling for the wrong girl.
Her eyes drifted over Magnus's shoulder, toward the obsidian towers that pierced the silver-lit sky. Tenebrarum is the bigger fish.
The thought hit her with the clarity of a plan finally snapping into focus. Magnus was a door, but Tenebrarum was the throne room. She remembered him on the dais—a figure woven from shadow and silence, all covered in black, radiating an authority that bent the very air around him.
He hadn't spoken to her, hadn't touched her, yet his presence had been the only one that felt like a threat… and the only one that felt like a true target.
Magnus's thumb stroked her cheek again, pulling her back to the performance. She made her eyes soften, her smile warm just a degree. Play the part. Get closer. But never forget who you're really here for.
"My lord," Isabelle began, her voice softening into a tone of intimate concern. "Might I ask you something?"
"Of course. You may ask me anything," Magnus replied, his expression open, trusting.
She let a delicate hesitation hang in the air. "I hope this does not sound discourteous, but…" She paused, lowering her gaze as if gathering courage. "Why are you not the crown prince?"
The question struck him like a physical blow. His open expression shattered, replaced by a flash of raw, unguarded pain. He was the firstborn legitimate son. The throne was his by blood, by tradition. And yet, it had been given to Tenebrarum—the second son, the masked heir born of a shadowed union. The injustice of it was a wound Isabelle had just poured salt into.
Seeing the storm gather in his eyes—the hurt curdling into something darker—Isabelle knew she had to act fast.
"I am so sorry," she breathed, her hand fluttering to her chest in a show of distress. "That came out all wrong. Please forgive me. It is only that… we are to be married next week. I thought perhaps we should begin to know the deeper parts of each other. The burdens we carry."
She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing his sleeve. "I did not mean to open an old wound. I spoke out of turn."
Magnus's jaw worked silently. He looked at her hand on his arm, then back at her pleading face. The anger didn't leave, but it banked, smothered by her apparent remorse.
"That is… a fair desire," he said stiffly, though his voice was strained. "But you must understand. If you want to know about me than talk about not Tenebrarum."
With that, he turned and walked ahead, his strides suddenly swift and tense, putting deliberate distance between them. The easy rapport was gone, replaced by a chasm of bruised pride.
The silence that followed was no longer companionable, but icy. Magnus did not look back. His shoulders were set, his posture rigid as he continued down the glimmering path, the manufactured beauty of the garden now feeling as hollow and brittle as glass.
Isabelle followed a few steps behind, the space between them a new, tangible wall. Her mind raced. A mistake. A necessary one, but a mistake. I've traded a smiling suitor for a guarded prince.
"My lord, please," she tried again, her voice carefully woven with regret. "I have wounded you, and for that I am deeply sorry. It was not my intent."
Magnus slowed, but did not turn. "Intent is often cleaner than consequence, my lady," he said, the endearment now sounding formal and distant. "Some chambers of this court are best left unopened. For everyone's sake."
He finally stopped before a fountain where water cascaded over obsidian stones, a display of flawless, endless motion. He looked at the water, not at her.
"You wished to know me better," he stated flatly. "Now you do. I am the king's first son. I am the proposed alliance. And I am not the heir. Let that be knowledge enough."
The dismissal in his tone was absolute. The role of the charmed, eager bride was no longer available to her. She was now dealing with a man whose pride was armor, and she had been the one to remind him to wear it.
"My lord," she said, her voice a soft plea. She reached out, her fingers closing around his wrist, hoping the physical contact would pause his retreat.
He froze. Not at her touch, but in clear, bristling rejection of it.
"Take her to her chambers," he ordered a nearby attendant, his voice devoid of its earlier warmth. It was the flat, impersonal command of a prince dealing with a logistical problem. "Her ladies will be brought to her."
Only then did he turn his head slightly, not to meet her eyes, but to extricate himself. He pulled his hand from her grip with a firm, deliberate motion, as if removing something unclean. He did not look at her.
Without another word, he turned and strode away, his figure soon swallowed by the garden's deceptive serenity, leaving Isabelle standing alone with the silent guard, her hand still hanging in the empty air where his wrist had been.
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To be continued...