Morning arrived pale and cold, the kind of light that flattened shadows and sharpened edges.
Isolde was awake before the knock came.
She stood by the tall window of her chambers, watching mist cling low to the manicured gardens below. The Viremont estate looked peaceful at this hour—too peaceful. Stone paths traced with military precision. Trees pruned into obedience. Guards moving in predictable patterns.
Order, everywhere.
That was when the knock sounded.
Not urgent. Not deferential.
Measured.
She turned as the door opened to admit a senior attendant, followed closely by Prince Alaric himself.
He was dressed for the outdoors today—dark riding leathers beneath a tailored coat, boots polished but practical. The sight alone told her this was not a social courtesy extended for her comfort.
"Princess," he said, inclining his head. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"You are," Isolde replied calmly. "But I assume with purpose."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Always."
