Isolde woke to the oppressive weight of silence, not the sound of sunlight. The Ebon Citadel was a fortress that rejected the day. She was alone, the deep crimson hangings of the massive bed enclosing her in a heavy velvet cage. The silk sheets, still cool from Damon's touch, bore the faint, metallic scent of the previous night's brutality. She forced herself out of bed, her body protesting the violence of the political consummation, but her will was already rebuilding the fortress of her hatred.
She moved to the private bathing chamber. It was a cavern of black marble and heated steam, designed with an indulgence that felt obscene. As the water ran, Isolde looked for the faintest residual mark, any visible proof of the Vampire Prince's claim. There was nothing. Damon's touch was cold, precise, and left no lingering human bruising, only the internal ache of shattered dignity and a confusing, traitorous spark of raw sensation she viciously suppressed. She was his wife, but she was not broken. Not yet.
She dressed in the clothes a vampire maid had laid out.... a gown of deep charcoal wool, elegant and severe, meant to communicate wealth without warmth. As she pinned her auburn hair back, she studied her reflection. Her stormy grey-blue eyes looked back, defiant and calculating. Survival is a weapon, Isolde. Use it.
The main chamber doors opened without a knock, a breach of decorum Isolde instantly recognized as intentional. She turned as Lady Nyx, Damon's elder sister, swept into the room.
Nyx was the physical inverse of her brother's cold perfection. Where Damon was sleek and controlled, Nyx was sharp, angular, and restless. Her hair was a turbulent cascade of white-blonde, almost silver, that contrasted dramatically with her pale skin. Her eyes, a deep, crystalline shade of unactivated silver, held an intelligence that was both predatory and highly amused. She wore a gown of rich, shimmering sapphire that stood out against the room's darkness.
"The little human bride is awake," Nyx drawled, her voice possessing a honeyed, low tone that nevertheless carried immense power. She moved to the window, examining the rain swept view of Noctis below.
"Remarkable resilience. Most human women require three cycles of deep rest after a night in the Obsidian Suite."
Isolde remained by the hearth, refusing to yield the center of the room. "I am not 'most human women,' Lady Nyx. And I have duties to attend to."
Nyx turned, fixing Isolde with a penetrating gaze that felt like a forensic examination. "No. You are the King's sacrifice. You are a political treaty with a heart that still foolishly beats. And you have one duty, to bear a strong heir and then disappear back into the wallpaper, as quickly as possible." She smiled, a beautiful, chilling baring of teeth. "I, however, have come to appraise the new commodity my brother has acquired. He rarely makes a poor investment."
"I am not an investment," Isolde snapped, immediately regretting the emotional reaction.
"Oh, but you are," Nyx corrected, circling Isolde slowly, an act of explicit psychological dominance. Isolde felt the cold aura of the Vampiric power emanating from her, less crushing than Damon's, but just as dangerous. "You are the price paid by Aldoria to avoid being extinguished entirely. Your dowry is peace. Your worth is exactly equal to the stability you provide to our borders... stability I would argue is better achieved by simply annexing your pathetic kingdom and removing the headache."
Nyx stopped, her silver eyes catching Isolde's. "Do not mistake Damon's focus. He chose you not for your beauty, which is merely adequate, but because of your resilience and the faint, unsettling trace of Witch blood in your lineage. That ensures an heir with... interesting potential. Something I, as the elder and far more competent royal, should have secured for myself."
Isolde felt the pressure. Nyx was staking her claim as Damon's true rival. "Your ambitions do not concern me, Lady."
Nyx laughed, a sound that was surprisingly melodic, yet utterly devoid of warmth. "Everything in this Citadel concerns you, little bride. My brother is consumed by three things, power, his ancient bloodline, and making my life miserable. You are now the nexus of all three. If you fail to conceive, or if you provide him with a weak link, I will ensure your demise is swift, satisfying, and politically necessary."
She stopped circling and leaned in conspiratorially, her breath cool. "A quick piece of Royal etiquette, Isolde, when Damon is annoyed, he enjoys breaking things. Sometimes that means treaties. Sometimes that means bones. Do not provide him with reason to indulge." She paused, a glint of genuine dark humor entering her eyes. "Also, never, ever confuse the black robes in the eastern wing with the ones in the western. One wing is for storage, the other is for the Purebloods who failed their duties. The cleaning staff here are terribly inefficient at tagging their property."
Isolde frowned, processing the dark implication hidden within the dry, almost conversational tone. "Is that meant to be humorous?"
"Everything in this court is a joke, Isolde," Nyx sighed dramatically, waving a hand. "A cruel, repetitive joke about power. Learn to laugh at the appropriate times, or they will laugh at your funeral." She paused, her expression shifting back to sharp appraisal. "You have a strength, an unyielding core, that most humans surrender instantly. Damon finds that fascinating. But fascination is fleeting. Keep your power hidden. My brother enjoys the chase, but he loathes being outsmarted. I, on the other hand, am far less forgiving."
Nyx picked up a single, polished black rose from a vase on the table and tossed it carelessly into the hearth. The petals instantly shriveled and blackened in the ambient heat of the room.
"The King has summoned you to the Great Hall to receive the official welcome from the court. It is a formality. Do not speak unless spoken to, and do not look the King in the eye," Nyx instructed, her voice reverting to a cool command. "And darling, try to look less like a sacrifice. It makes the rest of us look bad."
With a final, sharp smile that promised future rivalry and complicated malice, Nyx turned and glided out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
Isolde stood perfectly still. The cold fear she usually felt around Vampires was now tempered by a burning, furious intellectual challenge. Damon was dangerous, but predictable in his arrogance. Nyx was a serpentine, calculating threat whose true motivations were hidden behind a veneer of casual cruelty and dark wit.
She walked to the hearth and picked up the shriveled, blackened rose. The wood was cold, but the center of the petals still held a subtle warmth. A reminder. They will try to make me wilt, but I am not meant to break.