The Golden Diadem of Lysoria rose with the sun.
Light poured through the high windows of the Imperial Hall, catching on gold filigree and polished marble, turning the space into a living crown. The throne itself—ancient, severe, and impossibly ornate—sat elevated upon seven steps, its back curved like a diadem mid-lift, studded with gems older than most noble houses. It was said the first Empress had ordered it built to remind her successors that power was never meant to be comfortable.
Princess Isolde stood at the far end of the hall, where the light dimmed and voices softened into echoes. She wore mourning black, plain and unadorned, her sleeves unembroidered, her hair bound simply at the nape of her neck. It was appropriate for a daughter who had lost a father—and unremarkable for one no one expected to grieve loudly.
The court assembled in quiet tension.
Whispers fluttered like nervous birds. Too many eyes searched the throne.
Then the doors opened.
The Empress Aurelia entered alone.
There was no herald's cry. No proclamation of titles. The absence itself was a statement.
She wore black.
Not ceremonial black trimmed with gold. Not the symbolic half-mourning favored by rulers who wished to acknowledge loss without appearing weakened. This was true mourning—severe, unsoftened, the kind worn by women who had buried something irreplaceable.
A hush fell over the hall.
Princess Isolde felt it before she saw it—the subtle shift in the air, the collective intake of breath. Heads bowed reflexively. Even those who disliked the Empress recognized the weight of this moment.
Aurelia moved with measured grace, but Isolde saw what others pretended not to.
Her mother's cheeks were hollowed. Shadows clung beneath her eyes despite the careful application of powder. Her hands, resting lightly on the arms of the throne as she sat, trembled once before stilling.
Grief had touched the Empress of Lysoria.
That alone was dangerous.
Isolde lowered her gaze at once, though her chest tightened painfully. The court would interpret this in a hundred ways—political calculation, symbolic restraint, or strategic theater. Very few would allow themselves to think the simplest truth.
That Empress Aurelia mourned a man she had loved.
Proceedings began as they always did. Petitions were heard. Trade disputes acknowledged. Borders discussed in tones that suggested certainty even where none existed.
Princess Isolde listened.
She always did.
The Golden Diadem glittered in the morning light, beautiful and merciless. Princess Isolde had grown up beneath its shadow, learning early that splendor was never free. Every inch of gold was paid for in silence, obedience, or blood.
When the Empress spoke, the hall leaned toward her voice.
Measured, calm, and unbreakable.
Only Princess Isolde noticed how carefully her mother avoided looking toward the section of the hall where a low baron's daughter stood in mourning black.
The formal acknowledgment of the imperial daughters came next.
It was tradition—ancient and cruel in its simplicity.
One by one, the daughters of Aurelia Lysoria stepped forward as their names were announced, each movement a reminder of where they stood in the invisible ladder of succession.
Princess Valerica came first.
She wore ivory and gold, her mourning symbol reduced to a thin black ribbon braided into her hair. She moved with effortless confidence, chin lifted, posture flawless. The court watched her as if one watches a certainty. This was the daughter they understood. The firstborn. The lawful continuation.
Behind her stood Lord Severian Blackthorne, tall despite his age, his presence so deeply embedded in the court that it felt structural. He did not smile. He did not need to.
Princess Caelia followed.
Radiant even in restraint, she wore black softened by silver embroidery, her expression serene, almost luminous. A gentle smile curved her lips as she bowed—compassionate, devout, beloved. The Temple's influence clung to her like incense. Isolde could feel the shift in the crowd, the warmth of approval.
Princess Elowen was next.
Wearing dark gray nearly black as a form of mourning. She had a neutral smile. She looks quite plain, but she has power behind her. She has connections with the guild and merchants in all of the lands around the Golden Diadem. She knows how money runs.
Princess Mireya stepped forward next.
She did not dress to draw attention, nor did she try to avoid it. Her mourning black was severe, unrelieved by ornament. She bowed quickly, eyes lowered, already receding from notice. Most of the court barely registered her presence.
Princess Isolde did.
Mireya's gaze flicked upward once—sharp, assessing—before vanishing again. There was no grief there. Only calculation.
Then came Isolde.
There was a pause, brief but telling, as the herald reached the final name.
"Princess Isolde Lysoria."
She stepped forward.
Her movements were careful, almost hesitant. She bowed deeper than protocol required, lingering a moment too long. When she straightened, her eyes remained lowered, lashes casting shadows on pale cheeks. She clasped her hands as if uncertain what to do with them.
A few courtiers exchanged indulgent looks.
The youngest. The quiet one. The forgettable one.
Princess Isolde returned to her place without incident.
No one applauded. No one whispered.
That was the greatest mercy the court could offer.
As she stood there, Princess Isolde felt the hierarchy settle around her like iron bars—visible, unyielding. She understood it better than most. Birth order mattered, yes, but only as a framework. What truly determined survival were alliances, powerful fathers, and the stories others told about you.
She had none of those.
And she intended to keep it that way.
The consort gallery overlooked the Imperial Hall from a raised tier—close enough to observe, far enough to remain distinct. It was here that the men of the empire gathered, bound to the crown in name if not in title.
Princess Isolde's eyes drifted there, drawn by habit rather than curiosity.
Royal consorts did not sit the throne. They did not inherit crowns. The law was explicit on that matter. Lysoria was ruled by women, its succession guarded fiercely by matrilineal bloodlines.
But power had a way of finding alternate paths.
The men in the gallery stood in clusters, murmuring softly. Some were current consorts. Others were former ones—fathers of princesses whose ambitions had not died with their romantic ties to the Empress. They wore the marks of influence subtly: signet rings, council badges, temple insignia.
Isolde recognized them all.
Lord Severian Blackthorne, Princess Valerica's father, stood apart. His hands folded loosely behind his back. He did not need proximity to command attention. His authority radiated outward, unspoken, and unquestioned. Years of shaping council decisions had etched certainty into his posture.
Nearby stood Arch-Consort Casmier Vale, Princess Caelia's father. His expression placid, eyes half-lidded as if in prayer. The Temple's favor followed him like a second shadow.
Farther back, partially obscured by a column, lingered Lord Merrowyn Elric, Princess Elowen's father—still, watchful, his gaze drifting across the hall with unsettling precision.
Beside him was Marchal Darius Korrin, Princess Mireya's father. He was wearing his soldier uniform with medals hanging on his chest.
Men without crowns.
Men who decided which daughter rose and which fell.
Princess Isolde felt the truth settle into place, cold and clear.
Lysoria did not let men rule. It let them decide who would.
Her father had stood among them once—not with power, not with lineage, but with something far more dangerous.
An honest voice. A mind the Empress trusted.
She understood now why that had been intolerable.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Severian's gaze shifted. His eyes found her across the hall—assessing, curious, sharp.
Isolde dropped her gaze immediately, shoulders drawing in, her posture shrinking as if under sudden scrutiny. She fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, the picture of discomfort.
The moment passed.
Severian looked away.
Isolde exhaled slowly.
Her father had taught her many things, but the most important lesson had been this:
Never let them see you thinking.
Above them all, the Golden Diadem gleamed—beautiful, ancient, indifferent.
And beneath it, power moved quietly, like poison through blood.
The court recessed briefly after the formal acknowledgments, as it always did. Servants moved in practiced silence, refreshing goblets, straightening hems, murmuring reassurances that the machinery of empire had not stalled simply because one man had died.
Princess Isolde remained where she was.
She did not need to look around to know what was being said.
"It was sudden," a councilor murmured near the columns.
"Tragic, but the scholar was never strong," another replied. "At his age, such illnesses can take hold quickly."
Illness.
The word passed easily from mouth to mouth, smooth and unchallenged. It was an explanation that required nothing further—no inquiry, no accountability, no discomfort. A low baron falling to sickness was not remarkable. A scholar overworked to death was almost expected.
Princess Isolde listened.
She heard how carefully no one named the illness. How no physician was cited. How no details were offered because none were needed.
An unknown sickness. They said it was swift and unfortunate.
They said it was acceptable.
She felt something cold settle behind her ribs.
Her father had not been killed in secret. He had been killed in plain sight, hidden behind courtesy and custom. The court did not need proof because it did not want it. The truth was inconvenient; the lie was functional.
She thought of the study—the steady lamps, the precise dosage, the way the poison had been chosen to mimic decline rather than violence.
It had not been an act of rage.
It had been administrative.
Princess Isolde lowered her head, letting her hair fall forward, concealing the tightening of her jaw. Around her, the court moved on with practiced ease.
This, she realized, was how Lysoria devoured threats.
Quietly. Politely. With consensus.
When court reconvened, the Empress's expression had not changed.
But Princess Isolde noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers pressed more firmly into the armrest of the throne. Grief was not permitted here—not openly. Yet it had already breached protocol by existing at all.
Petitions resumed. Matters of state were addressed. Trade routes. Border disputes. A harvest report delivered with excessive enthusiasm, as if abundance might distract from loss.
Princess Isolde's gaze drifted only once—to the throne.
Her mother did not look at her.
Not yet.
And yet, Princess Isolde felt it—an invisible line drawn between them, taut with unspoken understanding.
Her father had been favored.
Not publicly. Not foolishly. But enough.
Enough that Empress Aurelia Lysoria had listened when he spoke. Enough that his words had carried weight beyond his station. Enough that men like Severian Blackthorne had begun to calculate risk.
Affection was dangerous.
Influence born of respect was worse.
Princess Isolde finally understood the full shape of the threat her father had posed—not as a consort, not as a lover, but as a mind the Empress trusted.
A low-born scholar shaping imperial thought.
A daughter educated in silence.
That combination could not be allowed to mature.
The illness explanation settled neatly over the crime, sealing it away.
And with her father's death, Isolde herself had become something new.
Unprotected.
The shift came without warning.
Proceedings slowed, then halted entirely as the Empress lifted one hand.
The hall fell silent at once.
It was a small gesture—but one that carried absolute authority. Empress Aurelia Lysoria rarely interrupted her own court. When she did, it was never without purpose.
Princess Isolde's breath caught.
The Empress's gaze moved—slowly, deliberately—down the hall.
It stopped on Isolde.
Not a passing glance. Not a perfunctory acknowledgment.
A look.
The youngest princess felt it like a physical weight, heavy and sudden. Around her, courtiers noticed the attention and stiffened, curiosity flaring. Princess Isolde felt exposed, her carefully cultivated smallness suddenly inadequate as shield.
"My youngest daughter," the Empress said.
Her voice was steady. Controlled. Yet there was something beneath it—a tightness that had not been there before.
"Princess Isolde has suffered a loss," Aurelia continued. "Her father has passed from this world."
A ripple moved through the hall—soft, restrained.
Princess Isolde lowered her head at once.
"In accordance with tradition," the Empress said, "and in consideration of her youth and vulnerability, it is time she be provided appropriate support."
Isolde's heart pounded.
Support.
The word carried no comfort. Only implication.
"She shall be assigned her first royal consort," the Empress declared.
The reaction was immediate.
Surprise, thinly veiled. Interest. Calculation.
Princess Isolde's fingers tightened within her sleeves. This was not how such matters were usually handled. Consorts were assigned strategically, often after careful negotiation. Rarely was a declaration made so publicly—and never without political consequence.
Her mother was doing two things at once.
Acknowledging grief.
And exposing her.
Isolde did not look up. She could not afford to.
"This assignment," the Empress continued, "will ensure her guidance, protection, and integration into the responsibilities of imperial life."
Integration.
Isolde understood the subtext instantly.
She was no longer permitted to remain entirely invisible.
Silence lingered for half a breath.
Then Princess Valerica moved.
She stepped forward with practiced grace, her expression sympathetic, almost gentle. The court turned toward her instinctively—the expected heir, the voice of reason.
"Your Majesty," Princess Valerica said, bowing deeply. "Your concern for our sister honors us all."
Princess Isolde felt the shift before the blade fell.
"It would be prudent," Princess Valerica continued, "to select a consort capable of discipline and protection—someone familiar with loyalty and command."
Several councilors nodded.
Princess Valerica's eyes flicked, briefly, toward the consort gallery.
"There is one such man," she said smoothly, "who is currently… unassigned."
The name followed.
Spoken calmly. Clearly.
The disgraced general.
Princess Isolde did not look up—but she felt it.
The ripple through the hall. The sudden sharpening of attention. Whispers sparked instantly, restrained only by the Empress's presence.
The general who had been rejected.
The man stripped of favor.
The liability.
Princess Valerica's voice remained sweet. "He is without current patronage. Without alliance. And thus… appropriate."
Appropriate.
Princess Isolde understood at once.
This was humiliation disguised as charity. A burden passed downward. A dangerous man no one else wanted, bound to the least threatening princess.
If the general failed—if he disgraced himself further—it would reflect on Isolde.
If he proved violent, unstable, or rebellious, the blame would rest with her.
If he were quietly eliminated, no one would question it.
A perfect gift.
Princess Isolde's pulse slowed.
She felt, distantly, her mother's hesitation. A pause so brief few would notice—but Isolde did. Empress Aurelia Lysoria weighed the balance, the factions, the consequences.
Then the Empress inclined her head.
"So be it," she said.
The decision was sealed.
Princess Isolde stepped forward before she could be prompted.
She bowed deeply—too deeply, as always. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and uncertain.
"Thank you, Mother," she said. "I will… endeavor to be worthy."
A few smiles flickered through the court.
They were forms of pity, amusement, and satisfaction.
They believed this was punishment.
Princess Isolde straightened slowly, her gaze still lowered, her expression composed into meek acceptance.
Inside, something sharpened.
The empire had made its first move against her openly.
And in doing so, it had handed her a weapon.