The corridors emptied too quickly.
Isolde felt it as she walked—how the echo of footsteps faded faster than it should have, how doors closed with unusual finality behind retreating nobles. The palace that had buzzed with argument only moments before now felt hollowed out, as though the building itself had exhaled and sealed its lungs.
She did not rush.
Rushing suggested fear.
Two guards flanked her now, their presence heavier than before. When she glanced sideways, one of them avoided her eyes.
Orders have changed, she thought. Again.
They escorted her not to her chambers, but past them—toward the inner wing reserved for Alaric's private audience rooms.
"This is not my residence," Isolde said calmly.
One guard swallowed. "Prince Alaric requests—"
"I am aware of what he requests," she replied. "I am also aware of where I am expected to be."
The guards exchanged a glance.
Then the door ahead opened.
