Morning arrived without warmth.
Isolde noticed it the moment she woke—the stillness pressed too tightly against the walls, as though the estate itself had drawn a careful breath and refused to release it. No distant chatter of servants. No echo of footfalls beyond her door. Even the birds beyond the tall windows seemed muted, their calls fewer and farther between.
She rose slowly, every movement deliberate.
When she crossed to the window and parted the curtain, she understood why.
The guards had changed.
Not in number alone—though there were more of them now—but in posture. Where before they had leaned casually against stone or spoken softly among themselves, now they stood straight-backed, eyes forward, hands never straying far from their weapons.
Professional.
Alert.
Watching.
Isolde's fingers tightened briefly around the curtain before she let it fall back into place.
So, she thought. This is how it begins.
