A letter came asking for audience, and it came from Raphael.
Isolde agreed and had chosen the sitting room deliberately.
It was not the council chamber with its polished table and listening walls. Not her bedchambers, where intention could be misread. This room was smaller, warmer—lined with shelves that held books she rarely touched anymore, and a low fire that softened shadows rather than banished them.
There were no guards inside. Only one attendant outside the door, dismissed with clear instruction to admit no one else.
Raphael arrived without ceremony.
He did not wear court finery. Only simple dark clothing, clean lines, unassuming elegance. His long dark blonde hair was tied in a half knot. His gray eyes seemed mesmerizing. No wonder he was called the court favorite. It is not only his wits but also his looks that gives the vibe.
He bowed as protocol demanded, but the smile he offered afterward was familiar—easy, unguarded, as if this were a meeting between equals rather than a summons from a princess who now carried the weight of attention.
"You wished to see me?" Isolde asked.
"Yes, your highness." Raphael replied.
Isolde extended her hand, and he kissed the back per ceremony.
She gestured for him to sit. He did, folding himself into the chair opposite hers with relaxed grace, hands resting loosely on his knees. He did not rush to speak. He did not fill the quiet.
Isolde noted that immediately.
Most people tried to earn space in silence. Raphael allowed it.
"I wanted to understand your intentions," Isolde said at last. She kept her tone neutral, controlled. This was the voice she used when she meant to defend herself. "After the banquet."
Raphael's expression shifted—not guarded, but thoughtful. "That's fair."
She watched him closely. This was supposed to be simple. Clarification. Boundaries. She had summoned him believing she would set the terms and close the door on whatever expectations the court had begun to weave around his name.
"I don't enjoy ambiguity," she continued.
A hint of amusement touched his eyes. "That surprises me."
She lifted a brow. "Why?"
"Because you wield it very well." he smiled with intent.
Isolde did not smile.
Raphael noticed—and stopped teasing at once. He leaned back slightly, posture open, receptive. "Then ask," he said gently. "Whatever you wish to know."
The invitation unsettled her more than resistance would have.
Isolde drew a slow breath.
"Why did you intervene," she asked, "at the banquet?"
Raphael did not answer immediately. He considered the question as if it deserved care, not calculation.
"Because the room was turning," he said finally. "And because you were alone in it."
"I was not alone," Isolde replied. "I had protection."
"You had a guard that can withstand physical attacks," Raphael corrected softly. "Which is different."
She felt the distinction land.
"Still," she said, "you chose to act in my stead."
"Yes." Raphael nodded.
"And you knew," she pressed, "that doing so would place you under scrutiny."
"I did." he said.
"Then why?" Isolde asked the most important question.
Raphael's gaze held hers steadily. "Because if I hadn't, the silence would have been read as consent. And you would have paid for that later."
Isolde studied him. "You speak as if you expected nothing in return."
"I did," he said simply.
She leaned back, fingers tightening slightly on the arm of her chair. "No one moves in this palace without expectation."
Raphael smiled—not lightly, not flirtatiously. It was a softer expression, almost rueful. "Then perhaps I'm badly suited for it."
She searched his face for the familiar signs—ambition, hunger, calculation. She found none. Only sincerity that made her uncomfortable.
"What do you want from me?" Isolde asked.
The question was meant to close the conversation. To force him to reveal the angle she could dismantle.
Raphael's smile faded—not into disappointment, but into something quieter.
"I want to be honest," he said.
"I would want it no other way." Isolde replied.
He laughed softly. "So I've been told."
Then he met her gaze again, and this time there was no playfulness left.
"I want to be by your side." he said.
The words landed without flourish.
Isolde blinked once.
"That is not an answer," she said carefully.
"It is," Raphael replied. "Just not the one you expected."
Isolde stared at him blankly. What he said truly is not the answer she was expecting.
"I want to be your consort." he added.
The sentence was spoken calmly, without emphasis. No kneeling. No dramatic pause. No attempt to dress it in politics or poetry.
Isolde stared at him.
For a heartbeat, her mind simply… stopped.
She had prepared for many things: negotiation, veiled threats, requests for protection, appeals to influence. She had rehearsed refusals and compromises in equal measure.
This was none of them.
"You—" She stopped, frowned, then tried again. "That makes no sense."
Raphael did not interrupt her.
"You have no need of the position," she continued, regaining momentum. "You hold influence without title. You have freedom in court. Visibility. Choosing to bind yourself—"
"I know," he said.
"—would expose you," she finished. "Limit you."
"Yes." he replied.
She leaned forward now, intensity sharpening her voice. "Then why would you want that?"
Raphael held her gaze, unflinching.
"Because I want you," he said. "Not your throne. Not your future crown. You."
The room felt suddenly too small.
Isolde's breath caught—not dramatically, but enough that she noticed it. Her mind scrambled for footing, grasping at logic like a familiar railing.
"You barely know me." she said.
Raphael smiled again, softer than before. "I know how you sit when you're being judged," he said. "I know how you refuse to react when it would cost you everything. I know you carry weight that was never meant for you alone."
That was… unsettlingly accurate.
"I know," he continued, "that you were taught to survive, not to be wanted."
Isolde's fingers curled slowly.
"You don't speak of love like this without motive," she said.
"I do," Raphael replied. "Because I don't have one."
She shook her head. "Everyone has motives."
"Yes," he agreed. "But not every motive is political."
Silence stretched between them, thick and unfamiliar.
Finally, Isolde said the truth—quiet, unguarded.
"I don't know what to do with that." Isolde said truthfully.
The admission surprised them both.
Raphael's expression softened completely then, all humor and sharpness gone, replaced by something gentler—something that did not demand.
"That's all right," he said. "You don't have to."
He leaned forward slightly—not close enough to touch, not close enough to invade. Just enough to be present.
"I'm not asking you to decide now," Raphael said. "Or to understand. Or to feel what I feel."
He smiled, small and earnest.
"I can teach you," he added. "Slowly and carefully."
Isolde swallowed.
"Teach me what?" she asked.
"How to be chosen and how to choose." he said. Then, after a pause, "and how to be loved unconditionally."
The words undid something in her.
"I don't make decisions without thinking them through," she said weakly.
"I know," Raphael replied. "That's why I'm not asking for an answer."
He rose then, smoothly, giving her space as if instinctively aware she needed it.
"Think of me as an offer," he said lightly, the warmth returning to his voice. "Not a demand."
He bowed—deep, respectful—and turned toward the door.
At the threshold, he paused and looked back.
"And Isolde?" he said gently.
"Yes?" Isolde replied instantly, just realizing that Raphael called her by her name.
His smile was unguarded, almost tender.
"I'll wait," he said. "If you'll let me."
The door closed behind him, leaving the room very quiet.
Isolde remained seated, heart unsteady, mind unarmed.
For the first time since her father's death, strategy had abandoned her.
And in its absence, something far more dangerous had been left behind.
The door closed softly behind Raphael.
It was the gentlest sound in the world—and yet it felt louder than the banquet hall had ever been.
Isolde did not move.
She remained seated where she was, hands resting on the arms of the chair, posture still composed out of habit even as something inside her had fractured. The fire crackled low in the hearth. Outside the tall windows, the palace gardens breathed quietly, unaware that anything had changed.
But everything had.
I'll wait, he had said.
No condition.
No expectation.
No leverage.
Isolde closed her eyes slowly.
She searched for the familiar reflex—the instinct to analyze, to categorize, to strip meaning down into manageable parts. She tried to frame his confession the way she framed all things: as risk, as asset, as danger.
It refused.
Raphael had not asked what he would gain.
He had not named what he wanted from her—only what he wished to give.
Influence.
Loyalty.
Desire.
Love.
The word itself made her chest tighten.
Love was not something she had been taught to handle. It was not part of governance. It did not belong to treaties or succession or law. Love was what her father had given freely—and what had gotten him killed.
Isolde opened her eyes again and stared into the fire.
Blind devotion, the court would call it.
Weakness, Valerica would sneer.
Impropriety, Caelia would condemn.
And yet Raphael had stood before her unarmored, offering himself without shield or claim.
The thought left her… unsteady.
Marcus sensed the change the moment she stepped into the corridor.
He straightened at once, attention sharpening as Isolde emerged from the sitting room. Her expression was composed—perfectly so—but something beneath it had shifted, like a foundation settling after an unseen tremor.
"You're already finished?" he asked quietly.
"Yes." Isolde replied.
He fell into step beside her as she moved down the hall, careful to keep his pace matched to hers. The palace was quieter at this hour, servants fewer, corners more watchful.
Marcus glanced at her once, then again.
"You looked troubled," he said.
Isolde did not answer immediately.
"No," she said at last. "I'm… unsettled."
That made him stop.
Marcus turned to face her fully, brows drawing together. "Did he threaten you?"
"No." Isolde shook her head.
"Pressure you?" he asked again.
"No." she shook her head again.
"Then what—?" Marcus felt exasperated.
"He offered himself to me." Isolde looked at him.
The words surprised them both.
Marcus stared at her. "As what?"
"As a consort." she replied.
The silence that followed was sharp.
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Did you refuse him?"
"I didn't answer." she said. "Not yet."
"That's not an answer," he said.
"No," Isolde agreed softly. "It isn't."
Marcus's hands clenched slowly at his sides. "You don't trust him?"
"I trust that he believes what he said." she said.
"That's not the same thing." Marcus replied.
"No," she said again. "It's worse."
Marcus studied her face, searching for signs of manipulation, of distress. Finding neither unsettled him more.
"He wants you?" Marcus said.
"Yes." Isolde replied.
"For no reason that benefits him?" he asked.
"Yes." she nodded.
Marcus exhaled slowly. "That makes him dangerous."
Isolde looked up at him then, meeting his gaze squarely. "No," she said. "It makes him honest."
Marcus shook his head. "Honesty is rarely safe in this palace."
"I know," Isolde replied. "That's why I don't know how to hold it."
They resumed walking, the silence between them weighted with unspoken understanding. Marcus did not forbid. He did not advise. He only watched her—carefully, protectively.
As if seeing her for the first time not as a strategist…
…but as a woman being chosen. A woman chosen to be loved.
That night, Isolde did not sleep.
She lay beneath the canopy, staring up at familiar shadows that refused to comfort her. The palace around her breathed—guards shifting, distant doors opening and closing, the quiet life of power continuing as it always did.
Her mind returned to Raphael's words again and again.
I don't want power.
I don't want recognition.
I want to love you.
She pressed her palm to her chest, as if to steady the unfamiliar sensation there.
She had built her life on preparedness. On foresight. On knowing the cost of every choice before she made it. Even Marcus—however deeply she trusted him—had entered her life through necessity and contract.
Raphael offered none of that.
No safety.
No predictability.
No shield.
Only presence.
Isolde turned onto her side, breath slow.
If she accepted him, she would gain:
A man whose devotion could not be commanded.A consort whose loyalty came from desire, not law.Influence wielded willingly, not extracted.
But she would also risk:
ExposureAttachmentThe possibility of loss that no reform could undo.
You cannot rule untouched, her father's voice seemed to echo, memory soft and cruel. But you must choose what wounds you will carry.
Isolde closed her eyes.
For the first time, she considered a choice not because it would strengthen her claim—but because it would change her.
Morning came quietly.
Isolde dressed herself without assistance, movements precise but slower than usual. When she finished, she stood before the mirror and studied her reflection—not for flaws, but for truth.
She looked the same.
She was not.
Raphael had not asked for a decision.
That was what lingered.
He had trusted her with his heart and stepped away, leaving the power where it had always been—with her.
Isolde moved to the writing desk and sat, fingers hovering over the parchment. A summons would be easy. A refusal easier still.
Instead, she wrote nothing.
She folded the blank page and set it aside.
Soon, she decided. But not yet.
If she chose Raphael, it would not be because she was overwhelmed. It would be because she was ready to choose something that could not be undone by law or crown.
Outside her door, Marcus took his post, sensing the shift but not naming it.
Somewhere else in the palace, Raphael Mirecourt went about his day as if nothing had changed.
But Isolde knew better.
For the first time since her father's death, someone had looked at her not as a future ruler—
—but as a woman worth loving.
And she did not yet know whether that would save her…
…or ruin her.