The moment her boots kissed the soil, Aila's soil rippled.
The ground trembled,subtle at first, like a pulse mistaken for imagination. A ripple ran outward from the point of contact, disturbing grains of gold-flecked sand that shimmered even under the dim morning sun. It was not violent, yet it carried intention. It felt like the land was stretching awake after a long slumber, testing old limbs, cracking stiff knuckles, murmuring.
'Finally'.
Isabelle stilled.
She had crossed boundaries before—courtroom thresholds, frozen cave aisles, the blistering desert outside Christencia's walls—but this was different. This soil felt aware. Sentient, like a being who did not bow to crowns, but to arrival. The air tasted warm, dry, laced faintly with saffron-gold winds that danced around her ankles before racing ahead like heralds with no mouths, only motion.
The caravan behind her rattled in response. The horses neighed, confused by the reverberation beneath them. Lantern chains jingled. The wheels groaned as if protesting destiny itself.
But Isabelle did not reach for anything.
Not the rail. Not her uncle's hand. Not even the cold wrist-object that usually soothed the storm in her chest. Her spine remained straight, posture stiff, jaw unshaken. Only her eyes betrayed her, flickering downward at the sand that swirled around her boots.
'Beautiful'she thought. So beautiful.
The Golden Sands were nothing like Christencia's frosted north or verdant south. Where Christencia's weather fluctuated, Aila wore sunlight like inheritance. The dunes rolled in wide, sweeping arcs—gentle hills that gleamed like hammered gold beneath an artisan's hand. Wind-carved ridges patterned the land like sigils older than language, shifting constantly, yet always settling. The desert was not barren,it felt like it had life,the wind carried it in a slow dance.A kingdom shaped by time and nature.
Far ahead, Aila's palace crowned the horizon like a mirage.
Tall spires of sandstone and alabaster stretched upward, kissed by drifting veils of golden dust. The palace balconies were draped in silks of amber and pale cream that fluttered like tongues whispering. The windows were vast, latticed with sun-forged filigree, reflecting the desert like a million fractured suns trapped behind glass.
It was beautiful. But it was a beauty.
The maids behind her were the first to speak—though not to her.
"Hmph," one of them hissed, brushing sand off her apron like the particles had offended her personally. "Even the land shivers at mongrels now," she muttered, eyes narrowing at Isabelle's back.
Another leaned close, whispering sharply, "So dramatic. As if we needed a tremor to announce a human's arrival."
They said human like it was a flavor they had bitten into unwillingly.
Their contempt was obvious—open disdain worn like perfume too pungent to hide. Some glared openly. Others feigned indifference, yet stole glances heavy with curiosity. Their gazes pricked her skin like needles testing fabric for weakness.
"Imagine it," a maid murmured, adjusting the silver comb in her hair. "A human Queen on Aila's throne. The Sovereign must have finally gone mad."
"Finally?" another snorted. "He has always been mad. Now he proves it."
Their laughter was thin, brittle, yet edged with unease.
Because even if Ishekirn was madness, he was their madness.
A hush spread among the palace servants waiting at the outer steps. Officials holding sun-colored parasols paused mid-adjustment. Scholars with scrolls tucked beneath their arms looked upward instinctively, sensing the land's greeting. Guards stationed by the palace gates tightened their grips on spears etched in gold, not silver—Aila did not need moonlight to glint. It had sunfire instead.
A young scholar swallowed audibly. "The land sings again."
An older maid shot him a glare. "Don't romanticize it. It's just sand."
But the sand still glittered around Isabelle like a memory refusing to be ignored.
Isabelle inhaled. Dry air burned warm in her lungs, foreign but not hostile. The desert winds curled around her hair—ginger waves braided tightly beneath a modest travel-veil of pale gold. Unlike the other Isabelle from other chapters, Isabelle's own beauty was quieter, but no less striking—warm-toned skin glowing faintly under morning glare, eyes blue-grey like stormglass reflecting winter skies at dusk.
She was not dressed like spectacle. But the world still spectated.
Because some presences did not need theatrics to command attention.
Aila was watching. The palace was watching. The maids were watching. The court was about to watch.
Aila's palace's inner gates opened without fanfare, yet the sound carried weight—two colossal doors groaning inward like the lungs of a titan exhaling.
Declan Moore had disappeared at some point leaving her all by herself.
The guards stepped aside, not in reverence to her, but in obedience to the decree that preceded her arrival. Their motions were mechanical, yet their eyes were not. Those glances were curious, sharp, wary—like men beholding a visitor who was already spoken of in rumours and insult alike.
The entrance hall swallowed her whole.
High ceilings arched overhead like a sky made of stone and gilded intent. Carved pillars lined the hall, each etched with swirling desert motifs—dunes, stars, and serpentine winds woven into geometric spirals. Unlike the roaring dragons and flame-forged imagery of Christencia's court, Aila's symbols did not shout. They watched, waited, and wound around you inevitably
The floor was smooth sandstone polished to a glassy sheen, scattered faintly with inlaid gold grains that glittered like intentional constellations. Every step she took echoed—
thud, thud, thud__measured, grounded, mortal.
The maids waiting inside did not bother hiding their reactions.
A line of them stood near the inner archway, draped in silks of desert yellow and pale cream, each holding trays of perfumed oils, water, or ceremonial cloths. Their posture was elegant, but their expressions carried stories of contempt older than their years.
One of them clicked her tongue softly.
"So this is the human," she whispered to the maid beside her, though not softly enough for the air to pretend ignorance. "So small."
Another smirked, lowering her gaze to Isabelle's waistline. "So plain. No ornaments. No glory,so plain."
"She looks like a draft of what a queen should be," a third added, adjusting the golden anklet wrapped around her own foot—delicate chains glinting as if to mock Isabelle's simplicity. "No wonder Christencia hid her. Aila will eat her alive."
The hall felt their words before Isabelle did.
The air rippled faintly, carrying grains of sand upward in a brief spiral before settling again. The palace did not like mockery either—Aila did not tremble for ridicule, only for arrival.
Isabelle paused briefly at the inner arch.
Not because their words had pierced her heart—she had built armor from silence long before gold or steel could be worn—but because her senses tingled again. That same foreboding, rising like an old omen yawning awake, climbing from her soles to her spine.
It was faint, but it was there.
A cool object at her wrist hummed faintly beneath her travel cloak. A small ingot of forged metal bound in black leather straps—a planning tool, not a weapon, but it soothed like one. She brushed her thumb over it once. Twice. Then released it. The moment demanded awareness, first impression mattered,today would determine how her days in Aila would be.
Inside the shadows of the hall, four figures observed silently.
Simba leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, red hair illuminated by stray sunbeams leaking from the palace skylight above. His black eyes mirrored her not in color, but in energy—his gaze pulled inward like a vortex,calculating. He said nothing,only watching.
Western stood farther back, posture refined, golden-white robes draped over his tall frame. His eyes narrowed slightly—not hostile, but impressed by her restraint. His respect grew quietly like a tide unwilling to be announced aloud.
Eastern had his arms folded, face scrunched in visible disbelief, irritation simmering beneath the surfed beneath his gentle facade"Of all creatures Fabian could have chosen," he muttered under his breath, "a human monarch. Ridiculous." Yet even he could not stop his eyes from flicking toward her stance again.
And finally Moleith, who sat on a raised inner balcony railing, legs dangling carelessly, chin propped in his hand, eyes fluttering half-closed like he had been rudely awakened from sleep itself. "So loud," he yawned, glancing at the ministers scurrying toward the council hall beyond. "So annoying. So early." He blinked at Isabelle once, long blonde lashes sweeping slowly. "Interesting though."
Because only interesting things woke Moleith.
Beyond the inner archway, the council corridor stirred.
Ministers, scholars, and officials were rushing toward the Grand Court of Aila. Their robes swayed in shades of gold, bronze, cream, and desert-forged splendor. Some faces were indignant, others curious, others wary—but all of them were tuned to the same silent truth:
A queen had arrived. And she wasn't one of their own.
The palace knew it. The soil had announced it. And now the court would host it.
Isabelle squared her shoulders and walked forward again.
Not because fate pulled her. But because she wanted to pull back.
The corridor leading to the inner palace garden was a study in contradictions—lush life framed by merciless gold. Palm trees stretched upward from beds of shimmering sand, their leaves long and slender like green blades dipped in sunlight. Water channels carved narrow paths through the ground, glinting as they flowed, reflecting the palace arches overhead. The air smelled faintly of saffron, amber, and the ocean's memory carried inland by desert winds.
The garden did not beg to be admired. It assumed it would be.
And still, Isabelle felt out of place in it.
The maids trailed behind her now, whispering again, softer this time—not because their opinions had changed, but because attention had shifted upward.
It always shifted upward in Aila.
A sudden hush rippled through the palace like a drawn curtain. Conversations stumbled into silence, feet slowed, necks craned, breaths held.
Because upstairs, a window opened.
Not dramatically. Not violently. Just enough.
But enough was catastrophic when he was involved.
Ishekirn stood there.
Tall. Still. Sculpted by centuries and boredom alike. His black hair fell in straight silken lines to his shoulders, catching the light like midnight made peace with gold. His skin was warm ivory kissed by desert radiance, flawless not by effort but by divine negligence—beauty left unattended becomes cruel. His robe was not ornate, yet it carried the subtle weight of a man who didn't need it to shine. Black cloth draped over his frame, lined faintly with gold threads.
His eyes, though…
They were not blue, nor black either like the others watching her.
They were golden irises threaded with burning bronze, swirling faintly like the dunes during a sandstorm, ancient and unreadable. Yet within them was a sharpness, a hunger—not for food, nor power, nor lust, but for disruption.
Bored people crave earthquakes.He just needed to create one.
Isabelle felt his gaze before she saw him.
It struck her like a physical thing—warm pressure blooming between her shoulder blades, forcing a stillness into her body she did not choose. The forged ingot at her wrist hummed again, but this time it was not soothing—it was recognizing.
She raised her head slowly.
Slowly, because even the air needed time to prepare for impact.
Then their eyes met.
Not like lovers. Not like enemies. Not even like royalty.
But like two sides of a locked door finally acknowledging the other side existed.
It just happened,the wind came,this time stronger carrying in waves of golden seeds of sand,causing her to duck with her hands and the veil she had put on beforehand flew of,her ginger curls swayed strongly against the winds.
Hearts stopped
She had been the only one trying to block her face with her hands to prevent sand from entering into her eyes and mouth. The rest were used to it.
His stare was unblinking. She was unguarded, though not by vulnerability—by exhaustion.
She tried to pat the sands off her dress,her hair and her arms.
Done,she raised her head up to look again because this time the gaze burned even more,it was pulling her,calling at her entire being and reason of existence.
She had spent her life being looked at like she was less. Ishekirn looked at her like she was more, but inconveniently so.
No pity. No worship.
Just truth with teeth.
The garden froze around them.
Even Moleith stopped yawning.
Simba's arms loosened from their cross,eyes dark. "So that's the face that makes glaciers shake," he murmured.
Western's lips curved,not a smile yet not quit a smirk. "The desert bows to presence, not pedigree," he said quietly.
Eastern clicked his own tongue, irritation cracking just enough for disbelief to leak through. "He opened the window for that?"
And Moleith—ever the poet of disinterest—blinked twice and said simply:
"Oh. So that's why the sands screamed." Eastern turned to look at the man in disgust and disdain at his choice of words.
"Beauty that puts safflowers to shame"Declan's voice echoed in their mind.
Because the sands only screamed for arrivals that shifted stories.
Ishekirn's lips parted slightly.
A quiet breath left him—amused, not impressed.
"A human monarch," he said to no one in particular, voice low, steady, melodic with ancient apathy. "Fabian's humor grows worse each millennium."
Isabelle heard him clearly this time.
She did not flinch.
She lifted her chin a little higher—not in arrogance, but in refusal to shrink or back down.
The desert wind swirled around her feet again, brushing the hem of her plain travel cloak. It was humble in design, yes, but it moved like a flag that had survived fire.
She stepped forward again.
He watched her still.
Then, very faintly, his brow arched upward.
The smallest motion.
But small motions toppled kingdoms when done by Ishekirn.
Because he did not need grand gestures
He only needed a witness.
And Isabelle had become one without applying for the position.
Far above them, the sun was setting, casting long rays through the palace halls, painting everything in molten gold. The Golden Sands earned their name most fiercely at dusk—when the desert looked like a crown, and the crown looked like a warning.
And standing between both was a girl the court had dismissed too early.
And a Succubus the world had woken too early.
Their first meeting was not a spark.
It was acknowledgement.