The invitation arrived in black wax.
Isolde knew the moment she saw the seal that this was no courtesy call. Alaric's personal crest—pressed deep, deliberate—sat heavy against the parchment, as though the wax itself had been forced to obey.
She did not open it immediately.
Instead, she sat at the small table by the window, watching the guards change shift below. The pattern had altered again—shorter rotations, overlapping sightlines. No gaps. No blind corners.
He is tightening everything at once, she thought. Which means something is coming.
Only then did she break the seal.
This evening.
Private dining chamber.
No attendants.
No signature.
None was needed.
Isolde folded the parchment neatly and set it aside. Her reflection stared back at her from the darkened window—calm, composed, eyes clear. She did not look like a woman about to be cornered.
But experience had taught her that traps were rarely sprung with force.
They were sprung with expectation.
