The bells tolled.
Low and measured.
Each strike rolled through the citadel like a heartbeat too large for one body, vibrating through stone, blood, and memory alike. Not an alarm,never that. In Aila, bells did not warn.
Isabelle felt the resonance long after the sound itself faded, a dull echo settling beneath her ribs as she stood alone in the corridor assigned to her quarters. The others had peeled away at the final turn.
Eastern with a tight nod, Western already elsewhere, Declan lingering only long enough to ensure she was escorted, Moleith vanishing without farewell.
Simba had not been there at all.
That absence sat heavier than the bells.
"I won't need to be waited on," she had said when they reached her door.
It hadn't been pride.
It had been instinct.
The palace servants had exchanged brief glances,surprised, perhaps relieved but they obeyed.
Isabelle waited until their footsteps were far enough before exhaling properly, shoulders dipping for the first time since she entered the Aila.
Alone.
Truly alone.
The chamber doors closed behind her with a soft, final sound, sealing her inside a space that calmed her more than it should have.
The room was vast.
High-vaulted ceilings arched overhead, ribbed with dark wood beams carved in archaic sigils, old ancient script, predating the empire itself. Tall windows lined one wall, draped in layered curtains of heavy velvet and sheer gauze, allowing Aila's pale sun to filter in without ever fully entering. The light here was controlled. Curated. Perhaps because they didn't expect a better. Well she didn't like the sun either.
She did not need the sun.
A raised platform held a wide canopied bed, its frame carved from obsidian-black wood inlaid with fine veins of gold. No linens disrupt it's beauty yet,everything pristine, untouched, waiting. Beside it, a low table held a crystal carafe of water darkened with herbs she didn't recognize.
Across the chamber lay a study.
A broad desk of polished stone, its surface bare save for a single candle and an empty ledger. Behind it, towering bookshelves climbed the wall.
All empty.
The sight struck her harder than expected.
A Queen's library, cleared. Waiting to be filled.
By her.
Isabelle swallowed and turned away before the weight of that implication settled too deeply.
The bathing chamber lay beyond a carved archway.
Steam already curled gently from the water, the stone tub carved directly into the floor, large enough to swallow exhaustion whole. The maids returned then,silent, efficient, heads bowed low. Their movements were careful, subdued, respectful in a way that felt… new.
No glares.
No whispered contempt.
Just obedience.
She was grateful for it.
Too grateful.
Her limbs trembled faintly as she shed her outer layers, exhaustion finally catching up now that no one was watching. The maids helped her into the bath without comment, the water hot but not scalding, scented faintly with myrrh and something metallic beneath it—bloodstone, perhaps.
Aila did nothing without intent.
When they withdrew at last, she let her head fall back against the stone.
For the first time since arriving, Isabelle allowed herself to close her eyes.
Jessica would have scolded her for that.
The thought came unbidden.
Jessica-who had brushed her hair since childhood, who had known when to speak and when to stay silent, who would have stood behind her now without fear, without hesitation.
Her chest tightened.
"I'm fine," Isabelle murmured to the empty room, though no one had asked.
The bells echoed again in her mind, softer now.
Somewhere deep within the palace, systems moved.
She felt them rather than saw them,wards shifting. This was not a kingdom that reacted. This was a kingdom that adjusted.
Guards changed rotations without being told.
Council chambers locked and unlocked.
Servants vanished when summoned elsewhere, replaced seamlessly.
Aila functioned like a living organism.
And she had been absorbed into it.
The thought should have frightened her.
Instead, it tired her.
Her chin dipped forward.
The warmth of the bath seeped into bone and muscle alike, heavy and comforting, pulling her under not with force but permission.
Isabelle drifted to sleep without realizing it.
The room did not stir when he entered.
Wards parted silently, recognizing him as they always had.
Isha stepped into the bathing chamber without hurry, gaze immediately settling on the figure slumped in the water, copper curls damp against pale skin, lashes resting dark against her cheeks.
'Not mine,not yet' his mind corrected idly.
He approached the tub, movements precise, controlled. The water lapped gently as he slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, lifting her with ease despite the exhaustion weighing her down.
She did not wake.He made sure of it.
He wrapped her in thick linen, warm and dry, careful not to jar her, carrying her carefully as though she were very precious, through the chamber and laying her gently on the bed.
For a moment, he stood there.
Watching.
His irises were fiery gold this time,his eyes burned with something. Something that threatened to burst out the very next morning. His eyes were fluctuating between a rich purple to a fiery gold colour.
"You came back too soon," he murmured, voice low enough not to disturb her sleep. His eyes brushed over her cheeks. Once, twice and then he reluctantly stops. His eyes softened.
My angel,be kind and save me once more. Please.
He adjusted the blankets once, precisely, then turned away.
The bells had summoned many things that night.
But none of them mattered as much as this moment did.
Morning in Aila did not arrive with light.
It arrived with order.
Isabelle woke to stillness so complete it felt deliberate. No birds. No distant bells. No servants moving beyond the walls. Even the faint hum she had sensed the night before. The palace had settled into something quieter. Watchful.
She lay still beneath layered linens, warmth clinging to her skin that had nothing to do with fire or sun. For a moment, she did not remember how she had gotten here.
Then she did.
The bath.
The exhaustion.
Nothing else.
Her brows drew together.
She sat up slowly, senses alert now. The room remained unchanged,curtains half-drawn, the bed precisely arranged, her discarded clothes folded neatly on a nearby chair. Too neatly.
Someone had been here.
The thought did not alarm her.
That was what unsettled her most.
She rose, crossing the chamber barefoot, every step soundless against the stone. At the study desk, the empty ledger was no longer alone. A second candle had been added,unlit but positioned precisely beside the first.
Balanced.
Intentional.
Isabelle touched neither.
Beyond the windows, the citadel moved again. Guards rotated in perfect silence, armor dark and unadorned, never once glancing toward her window. Servants crossed courtyards in measured patterns, never colliding, never hesitating. Blood-wards shimmered faintly along archways as permissions were granted and revoked without words.
No announcements.
No commands shouted.
She understood then that this was why the council sat when she left. Why discipline here took the shape of absence rather than spectacle.
This kingdom did not waste reaction on what it could simply outlast.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Isabelle did not turn. "Enter."
The door opened just wide enough for a maid to step through-young, pale, eyes lowered. She carried fresh garments folded over her arms, dark fabric edged with subtle gold thread.
"For Her Majesty," the maid said quietly.
Isabelle studied her for a long moment.
"You're human?" she said in disbelief.
The maid hesitated. Just barely. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Isabelle nodded once. "What's your name?"
"Maria" The young girl said bowing her head even more.
"Leave them here"she said gesturing
Maria nodded and obeyed without question.
When the door closed again, Isabelle exhaled slowly.
They had decided something overnight.
She dressed with care. The garments fit perfectly as if it was custom made just for her . The cut was restrained, regal without excess, the weight grounding.
When she fastened the final clasp, she felt it.
A presence.
Not in the room.
In the palace.
Her spine straightened instinctively.
Somewhere deep within the citadel, awareness shifted,not sharp, not invasive. Merely… attentive. As if something ancient had opened one eye.
Not human, a thought brushed against her mind, not her own.
Isabelle stilled.
The words carried no disdain.
Only certainty.
Elsewhere, far below her chambers, Eastern paused mid-step, hand tightening on the railing.
"She's awake," he said quietly.
Western glanced up from his goblet. "You felt it too?"
Declan didn't answer. His gaze was distant, jaw set.
Moleith leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed. "She's not wrong for this place," he said after a moment. "That's what bothers them."
"And you?" Eastern asked.
Moleith's mouth curved faintly. "I'm bothered by how unsurprised I am."
Silence settled.
Not agreement.
Recognition.
Back in her chambers, Isabelle moved toward the window, fingers brushing the cool glass. She did not know how she knew but she did.
Eyes were watching her.
She did not flinch.
"Good," she murmured, more to herself than the palace.
And somewhere between shadow and fire
Steel struck stone.
The sound was abrupt, brutal, tearing through the quiet like a snapped tendon.
Isha's hand had barely lifted before Simba collided with him, blade flashing once—not aimed to kill, but to stop. The impact rang through the corridor, sparks skittering as magic buckled under the force of it.
Isha staggered back a single step.
Only one.
His eyes flared gold.
"You're in my way," he said softly.
Simba didn't lower his weapon.
"That corridor is closed to you," he replied. "You know why."
Isha's jaw tightened.
The palace reacted before he did. The air thickened, pressure building like a storm forced into a small sky.
"You don't get to decide that," Isha said.
"I already did," Simba answered. "A long time ago."
Isha moved.
Not fast.
Inevitable.
Simba barely parried in time, the clash shuddering up his arm, driving him back into the wall. Stone cracked. Dust fell. The corridor groaned, old magic flaring as it struggled to contain them.
"You felt her," Isha growled, voice rough. "Don't pretend you didn't."
Simba twisted, using the wall to flip free, landing lightly despite the force behind the blow.
"I felt you," he said. "That's the problem."
For a heartbeat, the gold in Isha's eyes wavered.
Something darker pressed beneath it.
He inhaled sharply, as if restraining not anger,but momentum.
"Move," he said again, quieter now. Dangerous. "Before I stop asking."
Simba didn't budge.
"You're not thinking,it's not you doing the thinking anymore" he said. "You've lost control."
That did it.
Isha slammed him into the opposite wall, forearm pinning Simba's throat, the corridor bowing under the strain. The wards screamed soundlessly, sigils blazing and reforming.
"Say it again," Isha hissed. "Say it like you mean it."
Simba met his gaze without flinching.
"You're being controlled."
The word landed like a blade turned inward.
For half a second, everything went wrong.
The air dropped cold. Not chill__absence. As though something vast had leaned closer, curious.
The palace stilled.
Isha froze.
His grip loosened instantly, breath hitching as his hand fell away, fingers curling into a fist against his own chest.
"No," he muttered under his breath. Not a command. A plea. "Not now."
Simba straightened slowly, weapon lowering but never leaving his hand.
"That's why," he said quietly. "You don't go near her like this."
Isha laughed once, short and broken.
"You think I don't know?" he snapped. "You think I haven't been counting every step since she arrived?"
"She doesn't remember you," Simba said.
Isha's head lifted sharply.
"And that terrifies you," Simba continued. "Because if you lose control...."
"Stop."
The word cracked.
Isha turned away, dragging a hand through his hair, aura surging then snapping back as if bound by sheer will.
"I won't cross that line," he said. "Not yet."
Simba studied him.
"That's what you said last time."
Silence.
Heavy.
"You're here to stop me," Isha said at last.
"Yes."
"To protect her."
"No. To protect Aila"
Isha's mouth curved into something sharp and tired.
"And if I don't?"
Simba's answer was immediate.
"Then I stop you before you make an irreversible mistake."
The implication hung between them,unspoken, absolute.
Isha exhaled slowly.
The gold dimmed.
Balance crept back in, inch by painful inch.
"Go," he said finally. "Before I change my mind."
Simba hesitated then turned, retreating down the corridor without looking back.
"She's not the same again, she's dead. Forget her"
Behind him, Isha remained still.
Above them, Isabelle stood by the window, unaware of the line just barely held.
And somewhere deep beneath restraint and memory, Ishekirn recognized the truth clearly.
Isha did not move.
The corridor slowly repaired itself behind him, stone knitting, wards easing back into place as though nothing had happened. The palace accepted restraint the way it accepted violence.
Inside him, something shifted.
Not a voice.
A weight.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, there was balance.
Then
You are wasting time.
The thought did not belong to Isha.
It was not loud. It did not need to be.
His fingers curled.
"She is not a thing," Isha said under his breath.
A pause.
Then amusement.
You noticed.
The presence did not press. It never did. It merely occupied the space Isha had tried to seal, calm and terrible in its certainty.
'You let her sleep,'it continued. 'That was… considerate'
Isha swallowed.
"She was exhausted,she's precious," he said. "That's all."
'precious,' the presence echoed. 'Is that what we call it now?'
The pressure shifted not outward, but inward, like a hand testing a fault line.
Isha braced.
"I'm holding," he said sharply. "You felt it. I didn't cross."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
'No,' the presence conceded. 'You did not.'
Relief came too quickly.
'But you wanted to.....'
Isha's jaw clenched.
"Don't," he warned.
The presence withdrew not fully, never fully but enough to leave the weight redistributed, tolerable.
'She's intersting', it said, already receding. 'That is… acceptable.'
The silence it left behind was worse than its voice.
Isha opened his eyes.
Gold.
Not purple.
He exhaled slowly, counting breaths the way Simba had taught him once, when counting had mattered.
"Balance," he murmured, more promise than truth.
Far above, unaware of how narrowly the night had been kept intact, Isabelle turned from the window.