The first thing Isolde did was scrub the ash from her cheek. She didn't use water... she used the corner of a clean, rough cotton sheet, rubbing the spot until her skin was raw. The small, dark smudge felt like a physical connection to Draven, a mark of his claim and his dangerous presence.
The guards outside her door had not moved. The silence was still absolute. The wardrobe panel had clicked back into place, leaving no sign of the secret tunnel. But the air in the Obsidian Suite felt charged, heavy with the phantom scent of woodsmoke and iron.
Isolde knew the routine would be different today. Damon was too calculating to miss the subtle disruption of the last night... the frantic aide, the absent Lord Cassian, and the general shift in the court's atmosphere. His reaction would be precise and suffocating.
She was right. The morning began with a full squadron of royal guards sweeping the suite. They didn't knock. They moved in silently, their silver eyes cold and professional, checking every shadow, every seam of the wall, and every panel of the carved furniture. They were looking for any sign of a breach, though they wouldn't know what they were looking for.
Isolde sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, allowing the violation. She wore her thickest woolen robe, refusing to show any vulnerability. She knew this was a direct extension of Damon's scrutiny.
The lead guard, a tall Vampire with hair the color of deep snow, approached her. "Are you comfortable, Princess? Did you sleep well?" His voice was flat, an empty formality.
"Perfectly, thank you," Isolde replied, keeping her voice even. "The stillness of the Citadel is quite restorative."
The lie felt heavy on her tongue. The guard finished his inspection and left without another word, closing the door softly. The whole exercise was not about security... it was about confirming her subservience.
A few hours later, Damon arrived. He didn't use the secret passage, but the front door, sweeping in with his usual cold grace. He wore a heavy, tailored coat that looked like black velvet made of liquid night. His Crimson eyes were narrowed, focused entirely on her.
"The security sweep was necessary," Damon stated, walking to the hearth and staring into the low flames. "There was a small inconvenience in the service tunnels last night. Nothing of importance, but I require efficiency in my house."
He turned back to her. "You are not looking well, Isolde. Your eyes are shadowed. The cold of our home requires a certain strength."
Isolde forced herself to stand. "The cold is new, my Lord. I will adjust."
"You will adjust faster," Damon corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He closed the distance between them, his movement so fast it was almost a blur. He didn't touch her, but his presence was a heavy, physical force. "I sense tension in this wing, wife. I sense deceit. You are the source of both."
He lifted a hand, and Isolde felt the blood drain from her face. She expected a slap, a violent assertion of ownership. Instead, he simply rested his ice-cold fingers lightly on her forehead, directly between her eyes.
"Do not test my patience, Isolde," he murmured, his gaze boring into her. "Any failure of yours, any secret alliance, any single act of rebellion, will be paid for not only by you, but by the entire, pathetic human kingdom you represent. I need you to be loyal, quiet, and fertile. Nothing else."
The psychological pressure was agonizing. Isolde had to actively channel the strange, internal warmth, the trace of Witch power just to keep her muscles from locking up. She held his gaze for a long moment, forcing defiance into her eyes.
Damon recognized the silent, internal resistance. His lips curved in a thin, cold smile. "Good. The spirit remains. But the obedience must be absolute." He dropped his hand. "You will accompany me to the Grand Library today. My sister, Silvana, will teach you the history of our lineage. Do not disgrace me with ignorance."
He left as quickly as he arrived, leaving Isolde breathless and shaking. He knew something was wrong. His scrutiny was now focused entirely on her. The stakes had been instantly multiplied.
Isolde met Silvana an hour later in a large, silent parlor. Silvana was even more nervous than usual, her pale amber eyes flicking nervously toward the entrance.
"The entire Citadel feels tight," Silvana whispered, handing Isolde a thin, leather-bound volume on the Vampire wars. "Damon knows something is wrong. There are new guards everywhere, especially around the staff access tunnels."
"He came to my chambers," Isolde said simply. "He threatened my kingdom."
Silvana gasped, covering her mouth with a trembling hand. "He is looking for a spy. He is looking for a weakness. We have to be perfect, Isolde. Absolutely perfect."
"Then tell me what I need to know," Isolde demanded, opening the book. "Tell me the histories. Tell me the weakness of the court. Do you know who controls the Citadel's northern border defenses?"
Silvana took a shaky breath and started talking, her voice low and rapid. She spoke of old family feuds, of generals who hated Damon's cold tactics, and of the complex chain of command. Isolde absorbed it all, the information a sudden, precious weapon.
"The northern defenses are commanded by General Seraph. He is loyal to the old ways, and he despises the idea of a half-human heir," Silvana whispered, leaning close. "But his movements are predictable. He leaves the Citadel every three nights to inspect the outer forts."
Isolde's mind instantly connected the information. *General Seraph leaves in three nights. That is Draven's target.*
"And the armory? Where is the main weapons cache?" Isolde asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the page, pretending to read.
Silvana frowned, thinking hard. "That is not public knowledge. But Nyx is obsessed with the armory. She believes Damon is hoarding ancient weapons in the sub-levels beneath the old training yards. She is always trying to get access."
Isolde filed the information away. Nyx was the key to the armory, just as Silvana was the key to the court's movement.
"Thank you, Silvana," Isolde said, closing the book. "You have taught me well."
Silvana looked at her, and the usual fear was mixed with a strange, loyal admiration. "I need this to work, Isolde. I need the fighting to stop. And I need... I need the Dragon to be safe."
Isolde looked into the girl's hopeful, pale amber eyes. The desire was so raw, so impossible, it made Silvana the perfect weapon. Isolde knew she was using the girl's pathetic crush to secure her own survival, but she had no other choice.
Later that evening, in the Grand Library, Damon paraded Isolde through the ancient archives. He forced her to stand silent as he spoke to old, powerful Vampire scholars about their lineage and the certainty of their future.
Damon stood over her, his hand resting possessively on her lower back, a constant, light weight that reminded her of his claim. He introduced her to an elderly scholar who was rumored to be the true keeper of the royal bloodline secrets.
"My wife is compliant, Professor," Damon stated, his voice ringing with cold pride. "She understands her duties. She will produce a powerful heir."
Isolde caught the eye of the Professor...an old, withered Vampire with black eyes that seemed to see into the past. The Professor looked at her, not with contempt, but with a deep, knowing pity.
As Damon turned to speak to another aide, Isolde felt the weight of his hand leave her. She glanced quickly around the archive. She was surrounded by ancient paper, scrolls, and texts... a vast, dusty collection of secrets. She had to give Draven the signal.
She saw a small, clay oil lamp on a distant table, flickering low. It was the only uncontrolled source of fire in the massive room.
Isolde quickly, smoothly, reached for a loose, discarded parchment that was lying on a shelf near her. She crumpled it in her hand, keeping the motion hidden by the thick folds of her burgundy dress. She activated her subtle power... the faint internal heat. She focused the energy onto the paper, forcing the dormant Witch blood to generate a quick, internal friction.
A tiny, controlled puff of white smoke curled out from her hand, disappearing instantly in the vast air currents of the library. It was the faintest possible signal, a ghost of fire in the ice.
Damon turned back to her, his Crimson eyes sweeping over her face. "You look flushed, Isolde. Are you warm?"
"Only slightly, my Lord," Isolde said, forcing a calm smile. She dropped the now-crumpled, cold paper back onto the shelf. The message was sent.
She had just signaled the Dragon Prince that General Seraph was his next target, and that the heat was rising. She had survived the scrutiny. Now, she just had to survive the consequences.