Isolde Point of View

  Morning light filtered through the window and Isolde hated it.

  She sat on the edge of Ragna's bed with her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting at the fabric hem of her dress, and she couldn't make them stop. The motion was small, repetitive, and it betrayed everything she was trying to keep locked down.

  Ragna paced.

  Back and forth. Bare feet on wood. The barbarian's usual energy had curdled into something sharp and restless. Every few steps she'd glance at her club, then the door, then back at Isolde like she was trying to decide which one to hit first.

  Neither of them had slept.

  How could they? Thorvyn had walked into Marius's private quarters hours ago and hadn't come back. The night had stretched into something endless, a blade drawn slowly across skin.

  What if he's dead?

  The thought was a cold knife and Isolde pushed it away but it came back. It always came back. Thorvyn was strong, yes, he'd killed a Black Concord Branch Leader and survived dragons and cultists and worse, but Marius was different. Marius was a 6th Ascension Sand Mage in his own fortress surrounded by knights and power and decades of cunning.

  What if Thorvyn miscalculated?

  What if I sent him to his death?

  That was her fear.

  The worst part was knowing that if Thorvyn died, it would be her fault. Not directly, no, but still her fault, something that’d settle in her bones and never leave. She'd asked too much of him. A barbarian she'd known for barely two months, and she'd asked him to walk into a viper's den.

  What was I thinking?

  "He's fine," Ragna said suddenly.

  Isolde looked up. "How do you know?"

  "Because if he were dead we'd feel it." Ragna stopped pacing, turned to face her with arms crossed. "Thorvyn doesn't die quietly. If your uncle killed him the entire manor would have burned down by now."

  It was meant to be reassuring. Isolde managed a weak smile but it didn't reach anywhere important. Ragna's logic was sound but logic didn't do anything about the fear sitting in her chest like a stone.

  He went in there because of me. Because I was too weak to face Uncle Marius myself.

  The shame of it settled heavy in her heart. She was a 4th Ascension Mirror Sovereign, a princess trained in strategy and magic, the future Queen of a kingdom that desperately needed someone strong, and she'd needed a barbarian to protect her from her own uncle's obsession.

  What kind of queen does that make me?

  A coward, probably. The kind who hid behind others while they fought her battles. Her mother wouldn't have needed Thorvyn. Lysandra Thalasson had faced down assassins, rival nobles, even her own husband when necessary. She'd been steel wrapped in silk.

  Isolde felt more like silk wrapped in hope.

  "Stop it," Ragna said.

  "Stop what?"

  "Blaming yourself." The barbarian walked over and sat beside her. The mattress dipped. "I can see it on your face. You're thinking this is your fault."

  "Isn't it?"

  "No." Ragna's voice was flat. Certain. "Your uncle's the one who decided to be a creepy old bastard. Thorvyn's the one who walked into his den. You didn't make those choices."

  Isolde wanted to believe that. She wanted the guilt to slide off and disappear but guilt was stubborn and it clung like oil.

  "He's going to be fine," Ragna continued, though her voice had lost some of its earlier confidence. "He's probably just... talking. You know how he gets. All philosophical and annoying."

  "Talking," Isolde repeated. The word felt hollow. "For six hours?"

  Ragna didn't answer that.

  The silence came back. Heavier.

  Ragna resumed pacing. Isolde went back to twisting fabric. The light grew brighter but the room stayed cold.

  Where are you, Thorvyn?

  She tried to imagine what was happening in that study. Marius and Thorvyn, two men who couldn't be more different, locked in a battle of wills. Or maybe not a battle. Maybe Thorvyn was already dead and Marius was just... sitting with the body. Planning his next move. Deciding how to explain it.

  "The barbarian attacked me, you see. I had no choice but to defend myself."

  The court would believe it. They'd want to believe it. A savage from the islands versus a decorated Marquis? The narrative wrote itself.

  Isolde's hands clenched into fists.

  No. I won't let that happen. If Uncle Marius killed him, I'll...

  What? What could she possibly do against a 6th Ascension mage with an army at his back?

  The answer was nothing. She could do nothing.

  And that realization was worse than the fear.

  "You care about him," Ragna said quietly.

  Isolde blinked. Looked up. "What?"

  "Thorvyn." Ragna had stopped pacing and was watching her with an unreadable expression. "You care about him. More than just... you know. Allies." Her voice transformed into a lighter, teasing tone. "It's cute. Life's too short, try it out."

  That felt a little insulting, the way she said it. It was almost as if Ragna was saying ‘he’ll reject you, but hey, you should at least let the feelings out.’

  Well… to be really fair, Isolde cared about Ragna too. She’d found Ragna fascinating from the day they’d met. A Princess, just like her, and yet so much stronger mentally.

  Countless times, Isolde caught herself staring and looked away.

  It wasn’t new. At Waybound, Zerina used to catch her doing the same thing and tease her mercilessly about it. "Should I be flattered or concerned that you keep staring?"

  When did things change?

  Isolde's throat went dry.

  "I..." She started, then stopped. What was she supposed to say? That yes, somewhere between Allister’s betrayal and Crimson Valley and a hundred small moments in between, she'd started seeing Thorvyn as more than just a useful warrior? That she'd started noticing the way he moved, the rare moments when he smiled, the quiet competence he brought to everything he did?

  That she'd started imagining a future where he stayed?

  "It's complicated," she said finally. "We Thalassons are bad with trust. Everyone trusted the former Crown Prince to elevate our country high, but now that man spends his time sailing the sea with half the court calling for his head," Isolde said, surprising herself with the admission. "Valtor used to sneak me spiced wine from the cellars and swear he’d fix everything when he was king. One morning I woke up and his face was on every wanted notice in Solstara.

  Ragna snorted. "This and that are different, Thorvyn isn’t Valtor. Is this really so complicated? I don’t get it. You like him. He likes you. The only complicated part is you're both idiots about it."

  "He's searching for his mother," Isolde said, more sharply than intended. What was Ragna even saying? Was this a test? Isolde was pretty sure Ragna liked Thorvyn too. Uhh, why am I thinking ‘too’? Isolde suddenly felt flustered by her own thoughts. She cleared her throat. "He's made that clear. Once this is over, once I have the throne, he's leaving. There's no point in..."

  "In what? Being honest?" Ragna leaned back against the wall. "Look, I'm not great at this feelings stuff. But I know Thorvyn from a young age, ever since he was a coward. And I know he doesn't risk his life for people he doesn't care about."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Thorvyn was a coward? Stop joking,” Isolde said and then fell quiet. “He's helping me because it's the right thing to do."

  "Sure. Keep telling yourself that." Ragna's grin was knowing. Infuriating. "But when he comes back, maybe try actually talking to him instead of doing that thing where you stare and then look away when he notices."

  Isolde felt heat creep up her neck. "I don't..."

  "You absolutely do."

  A knock echoed.

  Both of them froze.

  It was soft, almost polite, but it shattered the quiet like breaking glass. Isolde's heart lurched. She stood too fast, nearly stumbled, and moved toward the door.

  Ragna's hand shot out and caught her wrist.

  "Wait."

  "It might be..."

  "I know." Ragna's grip was firm. "Let me."

  Isolde wanted to argue but the look in Ragna's eyes stopped her. The barbarian's usual warmth had iced over into something cold and prepared. Ragna let go and moved to the door, positioning herself between Isolde and whatever was on the other side.

  She opened it.

  Marquis Marius Thalasson stood in the hallway. Hands clasped behind his back. Expression calm. The morning light caught the silver in his hair and made him look distinguished. Almost paternal.

  Isolde's stomach dropped.

  No.

  "Isolde..." Marius began, voice soft.

  "You can talk to me, old man," Ragna interrupted, stepping forward to fill the doorway.

  Marius paused. Blinked once, slowly, like he was surprised anyone would dare. Then he smiled. A polite smile that a nobleman gives a servant who's overstepped but is too amusing to punish.

  "You're not Thorvyn Valteria," he said. "Let's not overstep your boundaries, girl."

  Ragna's eyes went flat.

  "I am Ragna Valteria, daughter of Yrsa Valteria, the greatest Dragon Slayer my tribe's seen in centuries." Her voice was low. Steady. Sharp. "Of course I'm not Thorvyn. I'm destined to become stronger. Watch yourself."

  The air tightened.

  Isolde's breath caught. She'd seen Ragna fight monsters, laugh in the face of death, but this was different. This was Ragna standing between her and a 6th Ascension Mage, daring him to try something.

  She's going to get herself killed.

  Marius's smile faded. His gray eyes studied Ragna with the detachment of someone examining an insect. For a moment Isolde thought he might unleash sand magic right there, that she'd watch Ragna's defiance crumble into blood and bone.

  Then Marius frowned.

  And smiled again.

  "You barbarians really are something," he said, tone lighter now. Almost amused. "Anyhow, can you move? Please."

  The politeness was disarming. Ragna blinked, caught off guard. She glanced back at Isolde, uncertainty flickering.

  Isolde's mind raced.

  What happened? Where's Thorvyn? Why is Uncle being polite? Well he was always polite, but not to Ragna. Is this a trap?

  She tried to read his face, searching for the obsession that had haunted his eyes for days. It wasn't there. Or if it was, it had been buried beneath something else. Something that looked almost like... relief?

  What did Thorvyn even do…?

  She forced herself to breathe. To think. Marius wouldn't be here making small talk if he'd just killed Thorvyn. He'd be consolidating power, fortifying position, preparing for fallout. The fact that he was here asking permission meant something had changed.

  But what?

  She nodded to Ragna.

  Ragna hesitated, then stepped aside.

  Marius entered with slow steps. His gaze swept the room. The unmade bed, discarded club, tension hanging like smoke.

  Then he did something impossible.

  He knelt.

  Not a shallow bow. Not a nod. He sank to both knees, lowered his head until his eyes stared at the floor, hands flat against wood. The posture of a servant before his queen. A man surrendering.

  Isolde's breath stopped.

  What is this?

  Is he... is this real? Or is this another manipulation? Another game?

  But no. Something about the way his shoulders sagged, the way his hands trembled slightly against the floor, told her this wasn't an act. This was surrender. True, complete surrender.

  What did Thorvyn do to him?

  "My Queen," Marius said. Voice steady but stripped of polish. "I have wronged you."

  The words hung there. Impossible. Real.

  "I looked at you and saw a ghost. I touched you with hands that had no right. I let my grief poison my duty." He paused. When he spoke again his voice was quieter. Rawer. "I ask for your forgiveness though I don't deserve it. I offer loyalty though it comes too late. And if you wish it the barbarian can smash my skull here and now. I've already spoken with Captain Yasafina. If I die the army follows your command."

  Silence.

  Isolde stared at the top of his bowed head. At the silver in his hair. At the vulnerable curve of his neck. Her thoughts were a storm.

  This can't be real. This has to be a trick. What did Thorvyn do?

  But there was something in Marius's voice. Something broken and genuine that made her doubt her own doubts. She'd heard him speak with honey and silk a thousand times but this was different. This was a man who'd lost a war he didn't know he was fighting.

  Her eyes burned.

  Part of her wanted to kneel beside him. Wanted to forgive and pretend the last few days hadn't happened. Wanted her uncle back, the one from childhood who'd taught her chess and told her stories about her mother.

  But that uncle might never have existed. Maybe he'd always been this. A man obsessed with a ghost, looking at her and seeing someone else.

  Thorvyn's words echoed.

  If you truly want to be the wise queen you speak of, the decision is yours.

  She wasn't a princess anymore. She was Queen. And queens didn't weep when subordinates confessed crimes. Queens judged.

  Isolde heard herself speak before she'd fully decided to.

  "Rise."

  Her voice came out colder than intended. "Marius Thalasson, you stand accused of impropriety toward your sovereign. Of letting personal obsession cloud judgment. Of placing grief above duty."

  Marius lifted his head slowly. Gray eyes meeting hers. Red-rimmed. Glassy.

  Isolde's hands were steady now. "For these crimes you'll be executed after I claim the crown."

  Ragna inhaled sharply.

  Marius's expression didn't change. He waited.

  "Unless," Isolde said, letting the word hang, "you prove your worth in the war to come. If you lead my armies with honor, fight with the loyalty you've sworn, then perhaps mercy will find you."

  It was improvised. A way to keep him useful while establishing she was in control. A way to make him earn forgiveness instead of just granting it. Her mother would have done the same. Probably. Maybe. Isolde had no idea if this was the right choice but it was a choice and that had to count for something.

  Marius rose to his feet. Slow. Deliberate. A smile broke across his face, small and trembling, tears slipping down unchecked.

  "Thank you, my Queen," he said, voice thick. "I will not fail you."

  He bowed deeply. Turned. Left without another word.

  The door closed.

  Isolde's knees nearly gave out. She grabbed the bed edge, breath coming short and shallow.

  Did I just... did that actually work?

  "Where's Thorvyn?" Ragna asked, voice tight. "If your uncle's here where is he?"

  Marius's voice drifted through the closed door, muffled. "Open the window."

  Ragna frowned but moved to the far window overlooking a different section of the training yard. She threw it open. Morning light flooded in.

  Isolde joined her.

  Below, in the courtyard, Thorvyn Valteria moved.

  He wasn't walking. Wasn't resting. He was training.

  His axe spun in controlled arcs, obsidian blade catching sun in black flashes. Feet shifted, pivoted, every strike flowing into the next. Sweat on bare torso. Muscles rippling with movement.

  He looked like a warrior drilling for war.

  No.

  He looked like a barbarian who'd already won.

  Isolde's breath caught.

  Ragna let out a low whistle. "Well," she said, relief and something warmer in her voice. "Guess he's fine."

  Isolde couldn't look away.

  Thorvyn moved with fluidity that contradicted everything she thought about barbarians. No wasted motion. No unnecessary flourish. Just raw power flowing in the way that Isolde had seen knights train in. And yet, it was different from Knights. This was someone who'd turned violence into an art without meaning to.

  Like someone having trained discipline, and then broke the rules for the sake of barbaric rage. In a way opposite to what Yasafina had gone through.

  He’s so strange. Isolde thought about him. He walked into Marius's den and came out victorious and didn’t even bother to tell me. He broke my uncle without breaking him. And now he's preparing for what comes next.

  As if sensing her gaze, Thorvyn paused mid-swing. He looked up. Their eyes met across the distance.

  For a moment neither of them moved.

  Then Thorvyn smiled. Not his usual smirk, and definitely not the cynical twist of lips he wore when he was being difficult. It was a real smile directed entirely at her.

  Isolde's heart did something stupid in her chest.

  She raised her hand. A small wave. Uncertain.

  Thorvyn nodded once, then returned to his drills as if nothing had happened.

  But something had happened. She could feel it in the way her pulse raced, the way warmth spread through her despite the morning chill.

  "You're blushing," Ragna said.

  "I absolutely am not."

  "You definitely are."

  Isolde turned away from the window, cheeks burning. "We should... we should prepare. There's much to do before we march."

  "Uh-huh." Ragna's grin widened. "Lots to prepare. Like maybe thinking what you're going to say when you finally admit you want him to stay?"

  "I don't..."

  "Princess." Ragna's voice softened. "Like I said, life's short. Especially when you're marching to war. Don't waste time pretending you don't feel what you feel."

  Isolde opened her mouth to argue. But then shut it.

  Looking back out the window at Thorvyn. He was still there, moving through his forms with single-minded focus. A barbarian ready for war. A man who'd just changed her fate. A man with sweat and rippling muscles.

  Maybe Ragna's right. Maybe after the war, after the throne, I'll tell him.

  For the first time since hearing her father had passed, Isolde let herself believe she might actually reclaim her throne.

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