CHAPTER 197: CONFRONTATION

Mira followed.

Not closely. Not obviously. But she followed nonetheless, slipping through corridors a few paces behind Eris, watching the way servants pressed themselves against walls as the future Empress passed. Watching the way guards straightened, hands moving instinctively toward sword hilts before recognizing who approached.

Eris didn’t rush. Didn’t storm through the palace like a woman about to deliver vengeance.

She simply walked.

Calm. Measured. Inevitable as winter night.

And somehow, that was more terrifying than any display of anger could have been.

Aldric, meanwhile, had made a different calculation.

The moment Eris left, he’d grabbed his papers and practically ran toward Soren’s office. His emperor needed to know. Needed to be prepared for whatever was about to unfold in the eastern wing.

He found Soren at his desk, reviewing military reports with the kind of intense focus that suggested he was trying very hard not to think about where Eris had been for the past three days.

"Your Majesty." Aldric’s voice came out more breathless than he’d intended. "Lady Eris has just went to the preparation hall. Lady Isolde seems to have—"

Soren was already standing.

Already moving.

He walked right past Aldric without waiting for the rest of the sentence, his long strides eating up distance, that tall, broad frame cutting through the corridor like a blade through silk. Cold air followed in his wake, temperature dropping with each step, frost creeping along the edges of windows as he passed.

Aldric stood frozen for a moment, papers clutched uselessly in his hands.

"By Aenithra’s frozen mercy," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Someone intervene."

But he followed anyway.

Because someone needed to witness whatever was about to happen.

And apparently, that someone was him.

The preparation hall’s doors were closed when Eris reached them.

Voices filtered through. Laughter. The light chatter of women who thought themselves safe in their mockery.

Eris didn’t knock.

Didn’t announce herself.

Simply pushed both doors open with enough force that they swung wide, hinges protesting with a metallic shriek that cut through conversation like a blade through silk.

The room fell silent.

Instantly. Completely.

Every head turned. Jewelers. Seamstresses. Archivists. Nobles. All staring at the woman who’d just entered uninvited, unannounced, and utterly unafraid.

Lady Isolde stood near the rejected pile of Solmire silks, her back still turned, frozen mid-gesture. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge the interruption.

Then, slowly, she lowered her hand.

But she didn’t turn around.

Didn’t bow.

Instead, she raised her voice slightly, addressing the room as though Eris’s entrance meant nothing at all.

"As I was saying," Isolde continued, her tone carrying that particular quality of someone who knew exactly how insulting they were being, "all final decisions regarding the bridal preparations still rest with the Regent Empress. We’re simply... managing the details in her absence."

The implication hung in the air like smoke.

Eris has no authority here.

Eris has no real status.

Eris is temporary.

Several nobles shifted uncomfortably. Duchess Maren’s expression remained carefully neutral, but her eyes tracked between Isolde and Eris with sharp calculation. Count Lysander straightened from his casual lean, suddenly very interested in appearing invisible.

The seamstresses stared at the floor.

The jewelers found urgent need to reorganize their displays.

But Isolde pressed forward, emboldened by her audience’s silence.

"After all," she said, finally turning to face Eris with a smile that was all politeness and no warmth, "we must ensure everything is... appropriate. Given the circumstances."

She moved closer to the tapestry, gesturing at it with one elegant hand. "The rushed nature of this union. The lack of proper vetting. The... unconventional choice His Majesty made."

Her eyes met Eris’s directly now. Still smiling. Still pleasant.

Still utterly venomous.

"We wouldn’t want anyone to think the Emperor was thinking with something other than his head when he made his selection."

A few gasps rippled through the room.

Duchess Maren’s eyebrows rose fractionally.

Count Lysander looked like he desperately wanted to be anywhere else.

But Isolde wasn’t finished.

"The girl was chosen in haste," she continued, her tone shifting to something almost pitying. "A passing choice, perhaps. An impulse. We all know the Regent Empress is the true power in this palace. The true Empress, one might say. This... arrangement... is merely temporary."

The word "temporary" landed like a stone.

Someone in the back of the room inhaled sharply.

But Eris said nothing. Did nothing. Simply stood there, watching Isolde perform her little play, her expression utterly unreadable.

And somehow, that silence was more unnerving than any response could have been.

Isolde gestured broadly to encompass the room. "We’re trying to help, of course. Trying to educate someone so clearly unfamiliar with proper court customs. Trying to civilize..." She paused delicately. "Well. Savage customs from savage lands. Primitive practices that have no place in a civilized empire."

She moved to the rejected pile of Solmire silks, picked up a corner of crimson fabric between two fingers as though it might contaminate her.

"These, for instance. Barbaric. Garish. Completely inappropriate for an imperial wedding." She dropped the fabric with theatrical distaste. "We’ll have to teach her what proper taste looks like. What proper behavior demands. How proper empresses conduct themselves."

The condescension in her voice was thick enough to cut.

And still, Eris said nothing.

Just watched.

Waited.

Isolde turned back to the tapestry, that smile never faltering. "That crest had to be removed, of course." She gestured at where Eris’s homeland symbol should have been. "It’s improper for a bride of such... modest origins."

She let that settle for a moment.

"That little wench is silent because she knows I’m right." Isolde thought wickedly, smiling to herself. "She can pretend to be a great ruler in Solmire but here she’s nothing but a lowlife."

Then delivered the final blow.

"We’re trying not to humiliate His Majesty, you understand."

The room froze.

Every breath held.

Every eye wide.

Because that wasn’t just an insult.

That was a declaration.

And Eris moved.

Not slowly.

Not with warning.

One moment she stood near the door, perfectly still, perfectly controlled.

The next, she was across the room, her hand already in motion, palm connecting with Isolde’s cheek with a sound that cracked through the chamber like thunder.

The slap echoed.

Bounced off marble walls.

Reverberated through shocked silence.

Lady Isolde Ravencrest, chief lady-in-waiting to the Regent Empress, stumbled backward. Her hand flew to her face, eyes wide with shock and pain and something that might have been fear.

She hit the floor.

Hard.

Her perfect composure shattered like glass.

Nobles gasped. Artisans shrank back. Guards stationed at the doors moved forward instinctively before freezing, uncertain whether to intervene or witness.

And Eris stood over Isolde, breathing steady, eyes burning with something that was not quite rage and not quite satisfaction but somewhere perfectly, dangerously between.

Not a warning.

A verdict.

The sound of power shifting in real time.