The military wing of the palace had never been meant for imperial daughters.
Isolde knew this the moment she crossed the threshold.
The walls here were bare stone, unpolished and practical, scarred in places where armor had once scraped too close. There were no tapestries to soften the sound of footsteps, no gold trim to catch the light. Torches burned clean and bright, without ornament. This was not a place for ceremony. It was a place for function.
For men who bled.
The guards stationed along the corridor straightened at her approach, surprise flickering briefly across their faces before discipline smothered it. A princess rarely came here—least of all this one.
"She's the one?" one murmured under his breath, not quite quietly enough.
Isolde pretended not to hear.
She walked with careful steps, neither hurried nor confident, her gaze lowered in the way the court expected. The guards led her to a reinforced chamber at the far end of the wing. The door was thick oak bound with iron, more a containment than a cell.
Inside waited the general.
Marcus did not look like a man awaiting judgment.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight despite the lack of insignia on his uniform. The marks of his former rank had been stripped away—no sigils, no honors—but the discipline remained. Scars mapped his forearms, pale lines against tanned skin, the quiet record of campaigns fought and survived.
He did not bow when she entered.
The guards bristled immediately.
Isolde lifted one hand slightly, and they stilled.
She studied him in silence.
This was the man the court had discarded.
Not imprisoned. Not executed. Merely… displaced.
Removed from command, from relevance, from narrative.
It was a subtler punishment than death—and far more instructive.
"Princess Isolde," Marcus said at last. His voice was calm, unstrained. He acknowledged her title without warmth or deference. "You were not expected."
She tilted her head, as if uncertain. "I was told I should come."
That was all she said.
Marcus's eyes narrowed a fraction—not in anger, but assessment. He had expected arrogance. Or fear. Or rehearsed superiority.
He had not expected uncertainty.
Or the performance of it.
"She should know," one of the guards muttered irritably. "He's no longer—"
"I know what he is," Isolde said softly, cutting him off.
The guard flushed and fell silent.
Marcus watched her closely now.
Isolde took a step forward, then another, stopping a careful distance away. She did not approach him as a princess inspecting a subject. She approached him as someone measuring risk.
She could feel the court's intention pressed into this meeting like a thumb against her spine.
Take this burden. Carry it. Let it break you.
She lowered her gaze again.
They had underestimated how well she recognized discarded things.
"You've been assigned to me," Isolde said.
The words were deliberately plain.
Marcus did not flinch. "So, I've been told."
"You are to become my first royal consort."
Silence stretched between them.
Then he laughed—once, sharp, and humorless.
"They truly do despise you," he said.
The guards stiffened again. One took a half-step forward.
Isolde raised her hand once more.
Marcus met her eyes directly now. There was no insolence there. Only clarity.
"You understand what this is," he continued. "An insult passed downward. A message."
She nodded faintly. "Yes."
"You're meant to be humiliated," he said. "And I'm meant to vanish quietly."
She considered him for a moment, then said, "Do you intend to obey?"
His jaw tightened. "I intend to obey the law," he said. "Not the theater."
"I see." she replied.
He watched her carefully, perhaps waiting for rebuke. None came.
"I will not kneel," Marcus said flatly. "Not as a consort. Not as decoration. If that is what you expect, you should dismiss me now."
Isolde clasped her hands together, fingers twisting once in a gesture of apparent discomfort.
"I would not know what to expect," she said. "I have never had a consort."
Marcus almost smiled.
Almost.
"That much is obvious," he said. "You don't look relieved. Or triumphant."
She looked down at the stone floor. "Should I?"
"No," he replied. "If you were wiser, you'd be afraid."
The guards tensed again.
Isolde let the silence settle.
Then she said, very quietly, "I am."
Marcus's gaze sharpened.
Not because she admitted fear—but because she had not denied understanding.
"You don't want this," he said.
"No," Isolde agreed.
"Then why are you here?" Marcus asked.
She hesitated—just long enough to make the answer feel uncertain.
"Because I was told this was support," she said.
He exhaled through his nose. "Support," he repeated. "That's generous."
They stood facing one another—an unwanted general and an underestimated princess—each aware that this meeting was not meant to end in alliance.
It was meant to end in compliance.
Or collapse.
"You were once celebrated," Isolde said suddenly.
Marcus stilled.
She lifted her gaze—not fully, not boldly, but enough to show she was no longer speaking blindly.
"They sang your victories," she continued. "The border campaigns. The pacification of the western marches. The loyalty of the legions."
His expression did not change.
"And then," she added, "you were dismissed."
He corrected the sentence: "Stripped, of my rank and title." he corrected. "Publicly."
"Why?" Isolde asked.
He studied her for a long moment, searching for mockery or curiosity.
Finding neither.
"Because I refused to lie." he said at last.
Isolde nodded once.
"They asked you to support my eldest sister," she said.
"Yes." he replied.
"And you refused?" Isolde asked.
"Yes." he nodded.
"Why?" she asked.
Marcus's mouth tightened. "Because she wanted the army to pledge itself to her, not the throne," he said. "Because her father wanted assurance before succession was decided. Because they wanted to turn soldiers into leverage."
"And you would not?" Isolde looked at him with curiosity.
"I command men," he said. "Not pawns."
Isolde absorbed this in silence.
"So, you were removed," she said. "And offered to me."
"Yes." he nodded again.
"As a warning." she continued.
"Yes." he replied.
She exhaled slowly.
The pattern was unmistakable now.
Her father—poisoned for being heard.
This man—disgraced for refusing to obey the wrong future.
Integrity was not illegal in Lysoria.
It was simply intolerable.
"They intend to make an example of us both," Isolde said.
Marcus's brow furrowed. "You speak as if you expect to survive it."
She hesitated.
Then—very deliberately—she straightened.
Her shoulders squared. Her hands stilled. Her posture changed in a way so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone less trained in command.
When she spoke again, her voice was different.
Clear, measured, and intelligent.
"I do," she said.
Marcus stared at her.
The dullness was gone.
Not discarded—but folded away.
"I know why my father died," Isolde continued calmly. "And I know why you were given to me."
He did not interrupt.
"They believe this binding weakens us," she said. "That it diminishes you and burdens me."
She fully met his eyes now.
"I believe it reveals them." she continued.
Silence fell again—heavier this time.
Marcus did not bow.
But for the first time, he inclined his head.
Not in submission.
In recognition.
The guards withdrew at Isolde's request.
It was done with a soft gesture, almost apologetic, as though she were unsure she was allowed to ask. They hesitated—long enough to show how unused they were to obeying her—then complied. The door closed behind them with a muted thud that echoed more loudly than it should have.
The sound sealed the room.
Marcus turned his head slightly, listening to the retreating footsteps fade. Only when the corridor fell silent did he look back at her.
"You dismissed them," he said.
"Yes." she nodded.
"Why?" Marcus asked.
Isolde did not answer immediately.
She took a few steps forward, then stopped, considering the distance between them. The stone floor was cold beneath her slippers, the air faintly metallic with old iron and oil. This was not a place for lies to breathe easily.
She lifted her head.
The meekness fell away.
It was not dramatic. There was no sharp straightening of her spine, no sudden fire in her eyes. The change was quieter than that—like a hand withdrawing from a mask, revealing what had always been beneath.
Her gaze steadied. Her voice lost its hesitance.
"I dismissed them," Isolde said, "because if we are to speak honestly, there must be no witnesses."
Marcus did not move.
"You have been watching me," he said slowly.
"Yes." she replied.
"And pretending not to." he continued.
"Yes." she nodded.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not amusement, but something close to it. "You are not dull," he said.
"No." she replied.
"Then why—" he asked out of curiosity.
"Because intelligence attracts attention," Isolde cut in calmly. "And attention attracts danger."
She clasped her hands behind her back—not nervously, but in control.
"My father taught me to be small and not to be noticed." she said. "Not because I am, but because survival required it."
Marcus studied her as one might study a battlefield after realizing the terrain had been misjudged.
"How long?" he asked.
"How long have I been pretending?" she replied. "Since I learned to read."
Silence stretched between them.
"Your court believes you are harmless," Marcus said.
"They believe I am convenient," Isolde corrected. "There is a difference."
He exhaled slowly. "You chose this moment to stop pretending."
"Yes." she replied.
"Why now?" Marcus asked.
"Because now," Isolde said, "they have already moved against me."
Isolde walked to the table at the center of the chamber and rested her palms against its edge.
"My father was poisoned," she said without preamble.
Marcus's jaw tightened.
"They will call it an illness," she continued. "They already are. No investigation. No questions. No names."
"You're certain," he said.
"Yes." she replied.
"Who ordered it?" he asked.
She shook her head. "That question is a trap."
Marcus frowned. "That doesn't sound like certainty."
"It is," she replied evenly. "Because the individual does not matter. The system does."
She met his gaze squarely.
"He was poisoned because he was favored," she said. "Because the Empress listened when he spoke. Because a low baron with access to the throne—and a daughter educated outside faction control—represented instability."
Marcus said nothing.
"And you," Isolde continued, "were disgraced for the same reason."
His eyes sharpened.
"You refused to lend your soldiers to my eldest sister's ambition," she said. "You would not let the army become her father's leverage."
"Yes." Marcus nodded.
"They could not remove you quietly," Isolde said. "You were too visible. Too respected."
"So, they handed me to you," Marcus said flatly.
She nodded. "As humiliation. For both of us."
The words settled heavily between them.
Isolde straightened.
"I will not pretend otherwise," she said. "This is a political union. It was meant to weaken me."
Marcus folded his arms. "And you intend to use it instead."
"Yes." she replied.
"Explain." he said.
Isolde did not hesitate.
"I intend to contest the seat of Crown Princess," she said.
Marcus's expression did not change—but something in his posture shifted, subtle and alert.
"That is not a small intention," he said.
"No." she said.
"And you believe you can survive it?" Marcus asked.
"Yes." she answered with confidence.
He studied her in silence, searching for bravado.
Finding none.
"You have no faction," he said. "No army. No temple backing. No council bloc."
"I have time," Isolde replied. "And now—I have you."
Marcus barked a short, incredulous laugh. "You have a disgraced general with no command."
"I have a man who commands loyalty without coercion," she said. "A man who refused to sell his soldiers for ambition."
"That is not power," he said. "It is principle."
"In Lysoria," Isolde replied calmly, "principle is rarer—and more dangerous—than power."
She stepped closer, stopping a respectful distance away.
"I am not asking you to be my consort in truth," she said. "I am asking you to be my ally."
Marcus's brow furrowed. "Under the law, those are not the same thing."
"Under the law," Isolde said, "you are bound to the crown, not to me. And the law can be changed."
He looked at her sharply.
"When," he asked.
"When I become Empress," she said.
The words hung in the air—unsoftened, unromantic, unadorned.
"And until then?" Marcus asked.
"Until then," Isolde said, "I need a shield."
He considered her for a long moment.
"And what do you offer in return?"
She did not answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was steady.
"Freedom," she said. "When this is over. When I take the throne. Freedom from consort obligation. From ceremonial ownership. From being used as leverage."
Marcus stared at her.
"No ruler offers that," he said quietly.
"I am not offering it lightly," Isolde replied. "I am offering it because I understand the cost."
She met his gaze without flinching.
"I will not keep you," she said. "I will not pretend this is anything other than it is."
"And what is it?" he asked.
"A partnership," she said. "Forged because they tried to break us."
Marcus turned away then, pacing the length of the chamber once before stopping near the door.
"You are asking me," he said, "to stand against the most powerful faction in the empire."
"Yes."
"To place myself in direct opposition to Princess Valerica and her father."
"Yes."
"To risk execution if you fail."
"Yes."
He turned back to her.
"And in exchange," he said, "you promise me freedom and… what? Justice?"
Isolde's gaze hardened—not with anger, but with precision.
"I promise consequence," she said.
Marcus tilted his head slightly.
"They humiliated you," Isolde continued. "Stripped you of command. Offered you downward to make a point."
"Yes."
"They killed my father to preserve their advantage," she said.
His hands clenched.
"I do not promise revenge in blood," Isolde said calmly. "I promise something far worse."
She stepped forward—just one pace.
"I promise that Princess Valerica will never sit the throne she believes is hers," Isolde said.
"And I promise that her father will live long enough to see the system he built turn against him."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Final.
Marcus searched her face.
There was no cruelty there.
Only inevitability.
He let out a slow breath.
"You are not asking for loyalty," he said.
"No," Isolde agreed. "I am asking for alignment."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I will release you," Isolde said. "You will leave Lysoria under watch. Alive. Unbound."
He studied her a final time.
Then, without ceremony, Marcus stepped forward and knelt—not fully, not in submission, but in acknowledgment.
"Then we will need an army," he said.
Isolde inclined her head.
"Yes," she said. "We will."
Outside the chamber, the palace continued on—unaware that its balance had shifted.
Inside, two discarded pieces had chosen not to remain so.