Isolde had chosen to wait.
The decision had not been easy.
After Eastridge Hold, after blood and fear and escape, the capital had called to her like an unfinished sentence. Messengers had arrived daily, each carrying sealed parchment and carefully neutral expressions, urging her return—reminding her that the court, the council, and the Temple all awaited her presence.
She ignored them.
For three days, she remained at Eastridge.
She slept. She ate when her body allowed it. She let the ache in her limbs ease and the faint, lingering soreness fade. More importantly, she let the marks disappear.
Marcus had not asked why she delayed.
He understood.
In the stillness of those days, she watched the bruises on her skin shift from dark to yellow, from yellow to nothing at all. She told herself it was vanity—an empress-in-waiting could not afford to arrive looking harmed. She told herself it was strategy.
It was also necessity.
