The courtyard was unnervingly quiet, save for the faint rustle of the wind brushing against the stone walls. Isla's pulse drummed in her ears as she stared at Adrian Blackthorn. His dark coat seemed to absorb the weak morning light, his figure standing tall and sharp against the pale cobblestones. The man at his feet whimpered softly, clutching his trembling hands to his chest like a child caught in mischief. Adrian didn't even glance at him; his entire focus was fixed on Isla.
"We need to talk." he said again, his voice low but commanding.
Isla swallowed hard, her body rigid. She could feel Clara's nervous presence just behind her, but as much as she wanted to lean on her friend for support, she knew she couldn't. This was something she had to face alone.
"Very well," she said, keeping her voice steady despite the anxiety twisting in her gut. She stepped forward, each movement careful and deliberate, until she stood just a few paces from Adrian. "What is this about?"
Adrian's lips curved slightly, a faint smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I think you already know."
"I don't," Isla replied firmly, her chin lifting just a fraction. She wasn't about to let him toy with her—at least not without resistance. "If you have something to say, Your Grace, I suggest you say it plainly."
Adrian tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. He reached down and plucked a piece of parchment from the cobblestones. The man who had dropped it flinched, as though Adrian's fingers brushing the paper might somehow hurt him.
"This," Adrian said, lifting the paper into the light, "is a rather curious document. It was intercepted before it could reach its intended destination. And wouldn't you know it? Your name appears quite prominently."
Isla's stomach flipped. Her name? What could anyone possibly—
"Show me," she said, her voice sharper than she intended.
Adrian's smirk widened, but he held out the parchment without hesitation. Isla stepped closer, her fingers brushing his briefly as she took it. The paper was rough and torn, the ink smudged in places, but the words were still legible enough to send a chill down her spine:
*Lady Evangeline… not who she seems… dangerous… act quickly before… the crown at risk…*
Her breath caught. The words swam before her eyes, their meaning hitting her like a blow to the chest. Someone knew. Or at least, someone *suspected*. The small, fragile world she had built for herself was suddenly teetering on the edge of collapse.
"Where did you get this?" she demanded, her voice low and urgent.
Adrian arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying her reaction. "From him," he said, gesturing lazily at the cowering man. "He was quite determined to deliver it—though I doubt he fully understood its contents."
Isla's eyes darted to the man, who was now openly trembling. His clothes were plain, the kind a servant or low-ranking courier might wear, and his face was pale with terror. He looked as though he might collapse at any moment.
"Who are you?" she asked, stepping toward him. "Who sent you with this?"
The man shook his head violently, his lips trembling but refusing to form words.
Adrian sighed, the sound almost theatrical. "I'm afraid you won't get much out of him. He's loyal to whoever gave him the letter, though I suspect that loyalty is driven more by fear than admiration."
"Fear of what?" Isla pressed, her frustration mounting. "What is this about?"
Adrian's smile faded slightly, his expression turning more serious. "That," he said, "is the question, isn't it? Someone has taken an interest in you, Lady Evangeline—an interest that goes beyond mere gossip or courtly intrigue. Whoever wrote this letter believes you are a threat. The question is, are they right?"
Isla's chest tightened. She forced her expression to remain neutral, even as panic clawed at her throat. "I don't know what you're insinuating, Your Grace, but I assure you, I am no threat to anyone."
Adrian studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers. Then, without warning, he turned sharply on his heel and began pacing the courtyard, his boots clicking softly against the stone.
"Perhaps," he said thoughtfully. "Or perhaps you're simply very good at hiding your true nature. Either way, this letter represents a complication—for both of us."
"Both of us?" Isla echoed, narrowing her eyes. "What does this have to do with you?"
Adrian stopped pacing and turned back to her, his expression unreadable. "Let's just say I have a vested interest in maintaining the current… balance of power at court. If someone is trying to undermine you it could have ripple effects that reach far beyond your personal reputation."
"So, what?" Isla asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "You're offering to protect me out of the goodness of your heart?"
Adrian chuckled, the sound low and rich. "Goodness has nothing to do with it. Consider this a mutually beneficial arrangement. I'll ensure this letter—and any others like it—never reach their intended recipients. In return, you'll… owe me a favor."
Isla's jaw tightened. She didn't trust Adrian—not for a second. But she also couldn't afford to make an enemy of him, not when he held such a dangerous piece of evidence against her.
She glanced down at the letter in her hands, the words blurring as her mind raced. Whoever had written this knew enough to be dangerous. If it reached the wrong person—Prince Louis, the king, or worse—her carefully constructed life would crumble in an instant.
"What kind of favor?" she asked cautiously, lifting her gaze to meet Adrian's.
He smiled again, that infuriatingly smug smile that made her want to both slap him and run as far away as possible. "Nothing too onerous," he said. "Not yet, at least. But I'll let you know when the time comes."
Isla clenched her teeth. She hated the idea of being indebted to him, of giving him even more power over her. But what choice did she have? He had the upper hand, and he knew it.
"Fine," she said finally, her voice tight. "You have my…. cooperation. For now."
Adrian's expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp. "A wise decision, my lady. I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."
With that he turned and strode away, his coat billowing behind him like a shadow. The trembling man hesitated for a moment before scrambling to his feet and fleeing in the opposite direction, leaving Isla alone in the courtyard.
Clara approached cautiously, her face pale. "Lady Evangeline, are you all right? What just happened?"
Isla forced a smile, though it felt brittle. "Nothing important. Just… court politics."
Clara frowned, clearly unconvinced, but she didn't press the issue. Instead, she linked her arm with Isla's and guided her back toward the palace, her chatter filling the tense silence.
But Isla barely heard her. Her mind was spinning with questions, doubts, and fears. Who had written the letter? How had Adrian intercepted it? And most importantly what would he do with the knowledge he now held over her?
---
That evening, Isla sat in her chambers, the torn parchment spread out on the desk before her. She'd read it over and over, but the words refused to make sense. The fragments taunted her, their meaning just out of reach.
Martha entered quietly, carrying a tray of tea. "My lady, you've barely eaten all day. Are you certain you're feeling well?"
"I'm fine, Martha," Isla said, waving her off. "Just…. tired."
Martha hesitated, her brow furrowing with concern, but she didn't argue. Instead, she set the tray on the table and quietly left the room.
Isla leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the window. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light casting long shadows across the room. Somewhere out there Adrian Blackthorn was scheming, his mind working through plans and contingencies she couldn't even begin to guess at.
And Isla knew she couldn't afford to underestimate him—not if she wanted to survive whatever game he was playing.