The east wing dining hall had never been used for anything grand.
It was smaller than the great hall—long table of dark wood, high-backed chairs upholstered in faded silver velvet, arched windows that looked out over the lower gardens. Candles burned in simple iron holders. No braziers. No floating platforms. No altars.
The table had been set for thirty—women along both sides, husbands standing behind them as silent attendants. Platters of spiced fruit, roasted quail, dark wine in crystal goblets. Roses floated in shallow bowls between every place.
No one sat until Isolde entered.
She wore the same obsidian gown, but her hair was braided loosely with silver thread. The sigil on her hip glowed softly beneath the silk—visible, unhidden. She carried no chain in her hand. The thin silver necklace at her throat was the only ornament.
She took the head of the table—not the place of honor, simply the place closest to the garden doors.
"You may sit," she said.
