CHAPTER 198: AUTHORITY

Lady Isolde lay on the floor where she’d fallen, one hand pressed to her cheek, eyes wide with shock that hadn’t yet crystallized into understanding. Her perfect silver hair had come loose from its pins. Her ice-blue silk was rumpled, dusty from marble.

She looked, for the first time since entering this chamber, uncertain.

The nobles stood frozen. Duchess Maren’s expression had shifted from neutral observation to sharp interest. Count Lysander had gone very still, like prey hoping the predator might overlook him. The younger ladies who’d been laughing with Isolde moments ago suddenly found urgent need to examine their shoes.

Artisans pressed themselves against walls. Seamstresses clutched their measuring ribbons like talismans. Even the guards at the door seemed unsure whether to intervene or bear witness.

And Eris stood over Isolde, breathing steady, eyes burning with cold fire.

Her arm rose again.

Deliberate. Controlled. Intent clear.

She would deliver a second blow. A finishing statement. A lesson that would be remembered for generations about what happened when you insulted the wrong woman.

Her hand was already in motion when another hand caught her wrist.

Gentle but firm. Cold enough that frost spread across her skin where fingers touched.

Soren.

He’d entered so quietly that no one had noticed. One moment the doorway was empty, the next he filled it, tall and imposing, that imperial presence radiating outward like winter wind.

He didn’t pull Eris’s arm down. Didn’t force her to stop. Simply held her wrist, his touch a request rather than a command.

Not stopping her.

Not chastising her.

But making something absolutely clear to every single person in that chamber: the future Empress had his protection. His support. His authority backing every action she took.

The room’s temperature dropped ten degrees in an instant.

Soren’s voice cut through the silence like a blade through silk. Cold. Absolute. Carrying the weight of imperial command that brooked no argument, no hesitation, no mercy.

"Take her to the eastern holding chamber."

The guards moved immediately.

No questions. No confirmation. Just instant obedience to their Emperor’s will.

They crossed the room, lifted Isolde from the floor with efficiency that suggested they’d done this before. She didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Still too stunned, too shocked, pride shattered into pieces she couldn’t yet comprehend how to gather.

As they dragged her past, she finally found her voice. "Your Majesty, please, I was only—"

"Now." Soren’s tone didn’t rise. Didn’t need to.

Isolde’s mouth snapped shut.

The guards pulled her through the doorway, her feet stumbling over silk that had seemed so elegant minutes ago and now only hindered her graceless exit.

The doors closed behind them with a soft click that somehow sounded louder than the slap had been.

Soren’s hand was still on Eris’s wrist. He lowered it gently, then turned to face the room. His gaze swept across nobles, artisans, servants. Everyone who’d witnessed what just happened.

"This preparation is postponed," he said, voice still carrying that absolute authority. "You’re all dismissed."

They fled.

Not running, that would be undignified. But moving with remarkable speed for people pretending to maintain composure. Duchess Maren left with measured steps but visible haste. Count Lysander practically vanished. The younger nobles scattered like startled birds.

Within moments, the chamber stood empty except for Soren, Eris, and Aldric, who’d arrived just in time to witness the slap and now stood near the doorway looking like a man who’d just watched his worst political nightmare unfold in real time.

He thought Eris had overreacted. The slap had been too public, too violent, too likely to cause exactly the kind of political chaos they were supposed to be avoiding.

But he didn’t say a word.

Because the look on Soren’s face suggested that anyone criticizing Eris right now would find themselves in a holding chamber next to Isolde.

Soren turned to Eris, his hand still resting lightly on her wrist. "Come."

Not a command. An invitation.

She went.

...

The messenger found Vetra in her private solar, where she’d been reviewing correspondence from Duke Aldren regarding grain shipments and tax assessments. Boring. Necessary. The kind of administrative work that kept empires running while everyone else focused on pageantry.

The young man burst through the door without knocking, breathing hard, face flushed with either exertion or panic.

Possibly both.

"Your Grace." He bowed quickly, too quickly, the gesture sloppy. "Lady Isolde has been arrested."

Vetra’s quill continued moving across parchment. Smooth. Steady. Finishing the sentence she’d been writing before setting it down with deliberate care.

"Arrested," she repeated, voice perfectly neutral.

"Yes, Your Grace. By order of His Majesty. She’s been taken to the eastern holding chamber."

Now Vetra looked up.

Her expression didn’t change. Didn’t flicker with surprise or anger or concern. But something cold settled in her chest. Heavy. Immovable. The weight of understanding shifting into place.

"I see." She stood, smoothing down her gown with movements that betrayed nothing. "You’re dismissed."

The messenger fled gratefully.

Vetra walked to her window, looked out over the palace grounds. Snow falling in soft flakes. Gardens frozen into crystalline beauty. Everything orderly. Controlled. Perfect.

Except it wasn’t.

Not anymore.

She moved through the corridors with the same measured grace she always carried. Servants bowed as she passed. Guards straightened. Nothing in her bearing suggested alarm or haste or anything other than a woman taking a pleasant afternoon walk through her domain.

But inside, calculations spun like gears in a clock.

Soren had arrested Isolde.

Publicly, if the messenger’s panic was any indication.

Without consulting her. Without warning her. Without even the courtesy of informing her before taking action.

That was new.

She reached the eastern wing, turned the corner toward the holding chambers. Two guards stood outside one of the doors, hands resting on sword hilts, postures alert.

Vetra approached with perfect calm.

"Release Lady Isolde immediately."

The guards stiffened. Glanced at each other. Then back to her.

"Your Grace," the senior one said carefully, "we were commanded by His Majesty."

Vetra stopped walking.

Stood perfectly still.

Processing those words and everything they meant.

We were commanded by His Majesty.

Not "we’ll check with him first." Not "perhaps we should discuss this." Not even "we need authorization."

Just: His Majesty commanded us, and that supersedes anything you might say.

Something in her chest tightened.

This wasn’t the first time she’d felt Soren pulling away. She’d known for weeks, months even, that he was building his own power base. Making his own alliances. Preparing to rule without her guidance.

But this.

This was him actively moving against her loyalists. Punishing them. Using his authority to undermine hers in front of the entire palace.

This was him choosing that foreign woman over the stepmother who’d raised him, protected him, shaped him into the emperor he’d become.

She drew herself up, pulling rank with the kind of authority she’d wielded for decades.

"I am the Regent Empress—"

"The Regency ended with His Majesty’s coronation."

The guard’s interruption was polite. Respectful, even.

But absolute.

Vetra’s power snapped.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just... snapped. Like a thread pulled too tight finally giving way.

Because he was right.

The Regency had ended. Officially. Legally. The moment Soren took the crown, her authority as Regent dissolved. She’d maintained influence through custom, through the court’s deference to her experience, through Soren’s habit of consulting her.

But legally, officially, she had no more power than any other noble in this palace.

And Soren had just made that abundantly clear.

Silence stretched.

The guards waited, uncomfortable but unwavering.

Vetra could force past them. Could make a scene. Could demand entry and create exactly the kind of public spectacle that would damage her far more than this quiet refusal already had.

Or she could adapt.

She chose adaptation.

"I see." Her voice remained perfectly controlled. "Then perhaps His Majesty would be willing to discuss Lady Isolde’s situation. I’ll request an audience."

"Of course, Your Grace."

She turned, walked away with the same measured grace she’d arrived with.

But her mind was already spinning.