The great hall of Viremont had never felt so narrow.
Isolde sensed it the moment she crossed the threshold—the way sound carried too cleanly, the way footsteps echoed longer than they should have, as though the space itself were listening. Chandeliers burned bright overhead, throwing gold across polished stone and silk-clad figures arranged in deliberate ranks.
This was not a celebration.
It was a staging.
Nobles filled the tiers in controlled clusters, their murmurs subdued, curiosity sharpened by the phrasing of the summons. A declaration of alliance. No details. No forewarning.
At the far end of the hall, the dais stood ready.
Alaric had not yet arrived.
Isolde moved through the space with measured grace, her posture straight, her expression serene. She felt eyes track her—not openly, not greedily, but with the careful assessment reserved for moments that might later be described as historic.
