The invitation arrived precisely at noon.
It was delivered by two attendants in formal Viremont livery, their posture immaculate, their expressions neutral in the way of people trained never to look curious. One knelt to present it on a velvet cushion, the other stood watchfully by the door, as though Isolde might attempt to flee between breaths.
She did not move at once.
The seal alone told her enough.
Viremont's royal crest—silver crowned falcon stamped into dark wax—unbroken, deliberate, unmistakable. This was not a message that could be ignored, misplaced, or declined without consequence.
"Leave it," Isolde said calmly.
The attendants hesitated only a fraction of a second before obeying. The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.
