CHAPTER 195: LADY ISOLDE

Ah, dear reader, if you thought the palace hummed before, you should have seen it now.

Three days. Three days until the Emperor of Nevareth wed the Fire Queen of Solmire, and the Frozen Court had transformed into something between a celebration and a battlefield. Every corridor pulsed with activity. Servants rushed past with armfuls of winter roses and ice-carved decorations. Nobles arrived daily, their carriages crunching through snow, their retinues spilling into guest wings already bursting at the seams.

The air itself felt different. Tighter. Charged with the kind of tension that comes before storms or coronations or wars.

In the kitchens, cooks argued over whether Solmire spices could be blended with Nevareth seasonings without causing diplomatic incident. In the stables, grooms prepared dozens of frost-horses for the ceremonial procession. In the throne room, archivists debated the exact wording of vows that would bind fire and ice without setting precedent that might haunt future generations.

And throughout it all, whispers. Always whispers.

"Have you seen the tapestry?"

"I heard Lady Isolde is handling the preparations."

"The Regent Empress hasn’t been seen in days."

"Something’s happening. Can’t you feel it?"

Yes, reader. Something was indeed happening.

Because while the palace prepared for a wedding, another ritual was unfolding. One older, more dangerous, steeped in tradition that could elevate or destroy.

The bridal preparation ceremonies.

The Bridal Preparation Hall stood in the palace’s eastern wing, a vast chamber with soaring ceilings and walls lined with mirrors that caught and multiplied light until the room seemed to glow. Traditionally, the Regent Empress oversaw three sacred rituals here: the inspection of the bridal tapestry, the approval of the ceremonial crown, and the selection of the wardrobe that would symbolize the bride’s entry into the empire.

Three ceremonies. Three opportunities to honor... or humiliate.

And the Regent Empress Vetra had made her position clear through her absence.

She had withdrawn from these duties. Temporarily, the official word said. Due to pressing matters of state that required her immediate attention.

But everyone knew what it really meant.

It meant Lady Isolde Ravencrest, Vetra’s chief lady-in-waiting, would preside instead.

The chamber filled early that morning. Not with crowds, no. This was too delicate for true spectacle. But there were enough observers. Jewelers displaying their wares on velvet-covered tables. Seamstresses with pins caught between their lips and measuring ribbons draped around their necks. Palace archivists clutching records of every imperial wedding for the past three centuries.

And nobles. A carefully curated selection. Duke Konstantin’s wife, representing the Silver Shores. Duchess Maren herself, watching with sharp eyes. Count Lysander, that ambitious snake, leaning against a pillar with studied casualness. A handful of lesser lords and ladies, invited to "observe" and "offer guidance."

Enough people for gossip to spread like fire through dry grass.

Few enough that no one would dare intervene if things became... uncomfortable.

Lady Isolde stood at the chamber’s center, hands clasped behind her back, surveying her domain with the satisfaction of a general inspecting conquered territory. She wore ice-blue silk that made her silver hair gleam like frost under sunlight. Beautiful. Cold. Every inch the proper representative of Nevareth’s elegance.

And every word she spoke carried venom wrapped in honey.

The bridal tapestry hung from an enormous frame near the eastern wall, a masterwork of silk thread and gold embroidery that had taken artisans six months to create. It depicted, as tradition demanded, the "blessed union" between emperor and empress. Soren stood tall and proud, rendered in silver thread and ice-blue silk. Beside him, a figure that should have been Eris.

Should have been.

The weavers had done their work well. Too well, perhaps, following instructions that came not from the Emperor but from someone else entirely.

Eris’s homeland crest, the phoenix rising from flames that should have adorned her portion of the tapestry, had been altered. Replaced with something... generic. A simplified bird. No fire. No detail. No identity.

Just a shape.

A deliberate erasure.

Lady Isolde circled the tapestry with slow, measured steps. "The work is adequate," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Though we had to make adjustments, of course. The original design was deemed... inappropriate."

One of the nobles cleared her throat. "Inappropriate, my lady?"

"Mm." Isolde’s smile was pleasant. Empty. "Too elaborate. Too foreign. We’re trying to help Her Majesty-to-be blend into proper Nevareth traditions. No need to remind everyone of her... modest origins."

The word "modest" landed like a stone in still water.

Several nobles shifted uncomfortably. The archivists pretended sudden fascination with their documents. The seamstresses exchanged glances but said nothing.

Only Duchess Maren’s expression remained neutral, though her eyes tracked Isolde with the focus of a predator watching prey.

Near the tapestry, jewelers had arranged their offerings on a tiered display that stretched nearly to the ceiling. Imperial regalia gleamed at the top. The Empress’s coronation circlet, platinum and diamonds, ancient and magnificent. Below it, lesser pieces. Ceremonial hairpins. Decorative combs.

And at the very bottom, trinkets more suited to concubines than empresses.

Lady Isolde paused before the display, tilting her head as though genuinely considering. "The traditional coronation circlet is lovely, of course. But perhaps..." She gestured to a piece halfway down. "Perhaps this would be more appropriate."

A jeweler stepped forward nervously. "My lady, that hairpiece is traditionally reserved for—"

"Secondary wives, yes." Isolde’s smile never wavered. "But given the circumstances of this union, the speed of the arrangement, the lack of proper vetting... well. We want to be certain we’re not overstepping, don’t we?"

The implication hung in the air like smoke.

Count Lysander made a soft sound that might have been agreement or might have been discomfort. Hard to tell with him.

"After all," Isolde continued, her voice carrying perfectly through the chamber, "the coronation circlet is meant for empresses chosen through traditional channels. This situation is... unique." She picked up the lesser hairpiece, turning it in the light. "I think this suits better. Don’t you?"

No one answered.

Which, of course, was an answer itself.

The final preparation involved the bridal wardrobe, an elaborate selection of gowns and ceremonial robes that would mark the bride’s transformation from foreign monarch to Nevareth’s empress. Fabrics covered three long tables. Silks from the eastern provinces. Velvets from the northern reaches. Fine wool woven with silver thread.

And in a separate pile, pushed deliberately to the side, the gifts that had arrived from Solmire. Expensive imported silks in deep crimsons and golds. Embroidered with phoenix feathers and flame patterns. Each piece a work of art.

Each piece currently sitting in the "rejected" basket.

Lady Isolde stood beside this arrangement, gesturing to the cheaper materials she’d placed in the "approved" pile. "These will do nicely," she announced. "Simple. Elegant. Appropriate for someone still learning our ways."

She glanced at the Solmire silks with theatrical distaste. "Those, however..." She picked up a corner of crimson fabric, let it drop as though it burned her fingers. "Barbarian cloth. Far too garish for an imperial wedding. We can’t have Her Majesty looking like she’s dressed for a common festival."

The seamstresses winced.

One of the younger ones, braver or more foolish than her companions, spoke up. "My lady, those silks are worth more than—"

"Worth?" Isolde’s tone sharpened. "What does worth matter if the appearance is inappropriate? We’re trying to help the lady transition into proper society. Can you imagine the embarrassment if she appeared in something so... primitive?".

Duchess Maren’s expression finally shifted. Just slightly. A flicker of something that might have been disapproval or might have been calculation.

But still, she said nothing.

Because that was how power worked in Nevareth’s court. You watched. You learned. You waited for the right moment to strike or retreat.

And right now, everyone was still watching.

Still learning.

Still waiting.

The chamber had taken on the quality of a stage. Every movement choreographed. Every word carefully chosen. Lady Isolde held court among artisans and nobles alike, her authority unquestioned because the Regent Empress herself had granted it.

Or had she?

Because there was something off about this entire performance. Something too deliberate. Too calculated. As though Isolde wasn’t simply managing preparations but conducting a test.

Seeing how far she could push.

How much she could diminish.

How thoroughly she could undermine the future Empress before anyone dared object.

And so far, no one had.

The nobles watched with carefully blank expressions. The artisans focused on their work. The servants kept their eyes down.

Because this was Vetra’s power, exercised through Isolde’s hands. And no one challenged Vetra.

Not openly.

Not yet.

Lady Isolde circled back to the tapestry, studying it with false thoughtfulness. "Yes," she murmured, just loud enough to carry. "This will do. Once we make a few more adjustments to ensure everything is... appropriate."

She turned to face her audience, smile bright and cold as winter sun.

"After all, we wouldn’t want to humiliate His Majesty with a bride who doesn’t understand proper imperial standards."