The night before the battle is unnaturally quiet.
Not the peace of safety but the stillness of a blade held to the throat of fate.
Isabella stands alone at the war table, one hand braced against the carved oak, the other resting unconsciously over her stomach. The Iron Crown's sigil gleams beneath torchlight, a crown forged from blades, not gold.
This is the moment she gambled everything on.
Across the map, Alessandro's projected movements are marked in red ink. Too confident. Too fast. Exactly how she wanted him.
"He believes we're fractured," Luca says quietly from behind her. "That the marriage made you reckless."
Isabella smiles coldly, precise.
"Then let him choke on that belief."
Damian watches her from the shadows, pride and fear warring in his chest. This is not the girl he once protected. This is a queen who learned war from loss.
Sophia enters, pale but standing. Still wounded, still unbroken.
