The gaze did not break.
It held—steady as Aila's eternal horizon.
The palace garden beneath the towering citadel seemed to dim further, as though the very light hesitated to intrude upon the moment. Distance meant nothing now; there was only here, him, and her.
Isabelle felt it first as a whisper on her skin.
A light caress, ghost-soft, traced the nape of her neck, drifting downward along the line of her spine. It was not a hand, not quite, but she felt the touch carried by awareness itself. The sensation unfurled like a shiver made of silk and omen.
Her breath stalled, then resumed shallow.
The hairs at her nape lifted. Then the ones along her arms. Then across her back, as if her body recognized a truth her mind had not finished spelling yet.
A breath brushed her neck.
Warm and light
She turned rigid not from fear, but from alertness sharpened into something else entirely. It skated the thin border between warning and wonder. She did not have to look behind her to know it was no servant, no minister, no guard. The air carried a strong tension and it thickened each second.
But her eyes were still locked with his.
Upstairs.
Ishekirn.
She dared not forget that name,the very name that unfurled her since she laid her eyes on them.
From the window high above, he had not moved. And yet—somehow—the moment felt like he had stepped into the air itself, teasing her.
The travel cloak she had worn earlier was now gone, surrendered to the desert winds that refused to treat her like background. Beneath it, her gown revealed itself in quiet rebellion:
A fitted deep-cream bodice, structured with delicate boning that tapered elegantly into her waist—not corseted, but intentionally shaped. The neckline was modest, a gentle curve just beneath her collarbones, trimmed with a thin line of embroidered gold that caught the light like a promise, not a boast.
Her sleeves were long, flowing from her shoulders in layers of translucent silk, light enough to dance when the wind sighed but heavy enough to pool at her wrists like quiet dignity. The gown's skirt was made of cascading panels—Black patterned silks woven in desert tones of bronze, amber, and faint blood-gold, visible only when the outer layer shifted. That outer layer was chiffon-light, colored a darker sand-cream, and it moved now, stirred by a breeze that felt almost possessive in its attention.
Down her back lay a chain.
Not ostentatious jewelry—something subtler, court-appropriate, lethal in implication.
A spine-drape of thin linked gold, descending from the base of her neck to the small of her back, each link separated by tiny ruby-dark beads no larger than sand grains. They glimmered faintly like drops of dried dusk-blood caught in amber, accentuating every line the desert wind followed.
It turned a simple dress into a statement of shape.
A statement Ishekirn could not stop staring at.
Declan had stopped by an inn as soon as they got to Ails,a weird inn,where she got a well deserved bath and he had given her the dress.
Simba, still leaning by the pillar below, went unnervingly quiet as his eyes glinted with a hint of red.
Western looked away briefly—not from disinterest, but from the sudden awareness that things were no longer simple. Something more primal had slid into the atmosphere like a blade in velvet.
Eastern muttered a curse beneath his breath, eyes flicking between the sky-high window and the ministerial corridor beyond. "What in the world is that scent" he said closing his eyes to inhale deeply, but his voice had thinned. Even he felt it—the air had changed.
Moleith's pupils dilated slightly,his dark orbs sharpening into awareness. "Be careful" he said tone unreadable,he saw Simba's eyes glinting red, Western eyes too and his claws had elongated and Eastern's eyes were glinting red toi and his fangs were beginning to grow out.
"Something is happening" he said,jumping down from the railing
"Yes it is"Simba said his eyes back to normal as he quickly disappears.
But Isabelle did not care about menace now.
She knew.
Her heart did not pound—it acknowledged.
This was the King of Aila.
Not because he loomed above her in distance, nor because the others deferred to his madness, nor because the palace whispered his name in the walls.
Her voice did not leave her lips, yet her thoughts formed a voice but the wind carried it to him carried anyway:
"I see you seeing me pervert"
And upstairs, in that distant window where clouds drifted below the balcony, Ishekirn exhaled againslow, warm, amused at the disturbance of his own boredom.
For the first time in centuries, the desert had delivered someone who stared back.
Someone who did not shrink.
And someone whose arrival felt like a challenge the throne had been waiting to witness.
Slam
The windows were shut abruptly cutting off the gaze.
Ishekirn threw his head back in laughter as he heard her thoughts clearly. His forehead began to glow as red ember mark appeared,it was an ingot of flame,his golden eyes turned back to violet,his lips curled. It wasn't the other Ishekirn. The Ishekirn right now screamed evil, dark and wicked. His onyx black hair had strands of silvery white and it was quickly spreading.
"M I N E" Ishekirn said to the man who interrupted him enunciating each letter clearly warning Simba,his voice had dropped to a dangerous low.
The air around Simba had changed,his entire being pulsated as the energy around him thickened as he sighs. This was not time placate this crazy guy right now,he didn't have the time nor the energy.
"No"
"No?" The man growls,his Violet eyes glowing .
"It doesn't work on me"Simba said again knowing what he wanted to do,he watched him closing. He was bidding his time. He watched him closely looking for an opening. He could only get one chance.
"Isha"he warned
"Mine" he said again his voice dropping even lower.
"Yes yours" Simba said suddenly agreeing causing the other enraged man to momentarily pause.
This was his chance now.
Whoosh
Simba attacks him as Ishekirn was momentarily shocked by Simba's agreement.
Simba knew he had to get to him as soon as possible.
Stretching his hands to touch the man but he was a little too late as his limbs freezes,he was choked,he felt his insides twist.
Again
He sighs,as his breath slowly left him. He stopped breathing. His lifeless body fell on the floor.
Ishekirn turns to leave but pauses as he felt life force return back to the man in the floor.
Simba inhales as his eyes open again,his eyes glinting red now.
"You'll hurt her again and Kirn will go on a rampage, He'll destroy Aila. She loved Aila, she'll never forgive you Isha." Simba said trying to reason with the man,hoping.
"I won't"the man said.
"Bring Ishekirn back, before Kirn comes out"Simba says sitting up,his insides were killing him.
"He in slumber,he won't"Isha said.
"You coming out three times in a row in three months is going to wake him sooner or later. She's here already,isn't she?" Simba says trying to get up.
He hated this.
Ahh,his insides were churning.
"Just this once,it's the last time"Isha says leaving.
"Deal with the hair and the totem"Simba calls after him.
Once he left,Poof.
Simba vomits a mouthful of blood,Declan rushes into the room followed by an awake Moleith.
Helping him up,specks of blue sparks danced around Declan's hands as his brown eyes shimmered.
"HEAL"
Feeling better,Simba stands
" Thank you "
"Why is he out again?"Declan says,his eyes laced with worry.
" Is it because of her"Moleith asks curious
" No" Simba says his face indifferent as if what just happened had been an illusion. Moleith eyes narrowed.
He's lying
Moleith didn't say anything.
Simba knew Moleith k ew he was lying but he didn't care.
" How long this time?" Declan asks again.
"I don't know"
A lie again.
"Will HE come next?"
This time Simba went silent.
I hope not.
She could have sworn that she had seen purple irises now—rich and smoldering like twilight flames, flaring behind gold just long enough to scorch memory just before the window slammed shut.
Slam.
The sound punched through the suspended moment. The air snapped back into motion. The sun reclaimed its duty. And Isabelle blinked, once, slow, as if dragged back into her body after being held elsewhere. She tries to regulate her heartbeat.
A voice cut the quiet.
"Well. That was theatrical."
Eastern stepped forward, boots crunching softly against the marble golden sands. He was tall, severe in posture, dressed in layered indigo velvet embroidered with bronze thread, a jeweled sabre resting at his hip more for symbolism than combat. His presence was composed, aristocratic, but edged with a predator's alertness that had not fully cooled from earlier.
He inclined his head slightly, one gloved hand resting over his chest.
"Milady," he began, voice smooth but weighted with noble formality, "Allow me the honour." His lips quirked, faint, almost mischievous. "I am Eastern, Marquis of Aila_ the East."
Her eyes flicked up to him.
Not intimidated.
Not impressed.
Amused.
The corner of her lips twitched—just a ghost of a smile, small but wicked in implication.
Eastern paused. Then, realization dawned. He exhaled through his nose, a restrained laugh.
"Yes," he said, gesturing loosely toward the citadel behind them, "I'm aware my name rhymes with my territory. Wait till you meet the Marquis of the west" He leaned closer just enough to be conspiratorial. "Why?....Is he named Western?" Isabelle,her lips curling even more while Eastern's expression changed.
Her amusement didn't fade. If anything, it sharpened.
Seeing the man's expression, Isabelle chuckles out loud as her expression turned awkward.
Mesmerizing
"My father was on a roll" Eastern says admiring the shine in her blue grey eyes.
The desert wind swirled between them again, calmer now, like a courtier retreating to the corners to observe instead of interfere.
Eastern straightened.
"The court processions are about to begin. You will be presented before the Blood Council." His eyes flicked upward briefly to the tower window she had been trapped in seconds ago. "And the courtroom waits for you Milady".
He gestured toward the inner palace corridor, where attendants in ceremonial black already stood poised like shadows awaiting instruction.
"Follow me."
He turned and began walking.
She followed.
Not a question.
Not a word.
Not even the sound of hesitation.
He expected inquiries. Noblewomen always had questions. About protocol, rank, blood rites, alliances, introductions, who to avoid, who to flatter, who would devour them politically before nightfall. Ask subtly how to flatter the king.
But Isabelle said nothing.
Eastern slowed slightly, glancing back.
Silence.
Not nervous silence.
Not overwhelmed silence.
A deliberate, dangerous silence.
He nodded once to himself.
Ah. One of those.Declan had told them.
The kind who observed first, processes it, and strikes straight to the kill
She might survive the Blood Council after all.