The morning after Adrian's abrupt departure to the capital was one of restless energy at Blackthorn Manor. The manor staff, sensing the shift in mood, moved with quiet efficiency, though their hushed whispers and stolen glances betrayed their unease. The household had always been a place of order, but with Adrian gone and Lady Rosaline recovering, a sense of fragility hung in the air, as if the entire estate were holding its breath.
Isla awoke to the sound of distant voices drifting through the halls. She sat up slowly, her mind still tangled in the events of the previous day. Adrian's words replayed in her head: *"Let me know when you figure it out."* The memory of his touch lingered longer than she cared to admit, and she shook her head, trying to banish the thoughts. There was too much to worry about without adding Adrian Blackthorn to the list.
After dressing in a simple blue gown, she left her chambers and made her way down the corridor, intent on checking on Rosaline. The last time she'd seen her, the heroine had been pale and weak, but at least she'd been conscious. Isla wasn't sure what she would say when she walked into the room, but she knew she owed Rosaline some sort of explanation—or perhaps an apology.
As she reached the door to Rosaline's room, she heard voices from within. She paused, her hand hovering just above the doorknob.
"Rosaline, you shouldn't push yourself," came a familiar male voice. "You're still recovering."
Isla frowned. It was him—Crown prince Louis, Evangeline's former fiancé. She hadn't seen him since the night of the ball, when he'd been hovering at Rosaline's side like a shadow. His tone now was smooth, but there was an edge to it that Isla couldn't ignore.
"I don't need your concern, Louis," Rosaline replied, her voice sharp despite its weakness. "I'm fine."
"Rosaline," Louis said softly, almost pleading. "You're still in danger. I can't just stand by and do nothing."
"You've done enough," Rosaline snapped. "I don't need your protection. I never did."
Isla's grip tightened on the doorknob. She debated whether to interrupt but decided against it. Instead, she stepped back and leaned against the wall, her mind racing. It was clear that whatever had happened between Rosaline and Louis had left deep wounds, and Isla wasn't sure she wanted to get caught in the middle of it.
---
Meanwhile, miles away, Adrian Blackthorn was riding hard toward the capital, the rhythmic pounding of his horse's hooves on the dirt road echoing in his ears. The king's summons had been abrupt and cryptic, as always, but Adrian had learned long ago to expect nothing less. His relationship with the crown was as complicated as ever—a delicate dance of loyalty, suspicion, and mutual necessity.
The sun was high in the sky when the ambush came.
Adrian had just crested a hill when he spotted them: a group of riders blocking the road ahead, their faces obscured by black scarves. He reined in his horse, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. There were five of them—armed and clearly waiting for him.
"Your Grace," one of the riders called out, his voice muffled by the scarf. "We've been expecting you."
Adrian's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "If you're looking for a toll, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."
The rider chuckled darkly. "This isn't about money."
Adrian's grip tightened. "Then what is it about?"
"Your loyalty," the rider replied. "Or lack thereof."
Before Adrian could respond, the riders charged.
---
Back at Blackthorn Manor, Lady Beatrice had arrived like a storm, sweeping through the front doors with an entourage of servants and an air of authority that brooked no argument. She was a distant cousin of the Blackthorn family, known for her sharp tongue and even sharper sense of self-importance. No one had invited her, but that had never stopped her before.
"Lady Evangeline," she said, sweeping into the drawing room where Isla had taken refuge. "There you are. I've been looking for you everywhere."
Isla blinked, caught off guard by the woman's sudden appearance. "Lady Beatrice. I wasn't aware you were visiting."
"Visiting?" Lady Beatrice repeated with a laugh. "My dear, I'm here to *help.* With the wedding, of course."
"The wedding?" Isla echoed, dread creeping into her voice.
"Of course," Lady Beatrice said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "A wedding of this significance requires proper planning. I couldn't possibly leave it to chance."
Isla opened her mouth to protest but was promptly silenced by Lady Beatrice's commanding presence.
"Now," Lady Beatrice continued, pulling a sheaf of papers from her bag. "We have much to discuss. The guest list, the menu, the flowers—oh, and the seating arrangements! I trust you'll want to approve everything personally."
"I—" Isla began, but Lady Beatrice was already moving on.
"Excellent," she said. "We'll start with the invitations. I've taken the liberty of drafting a few options. Here, have a look."
Isla stared at the papers in her hands, feeling utterly overwhelmed. She had no idea how Lady Beatrice had heard about the wedding—let alone why she felt the need to take charge—but it was clear that the woman wasn't going anywhere.
---
Adrian had always been a skilled swordsman, but the odds were against him. The riders were well-trained, their movements coordinated as they surrounded him. He fought fiercely, his blade flashing in the sunlight as he parried and struck. But for every opponent he felled, another seemed to take their place.
"Who sent you?" he demanded, his voice cold and steady despite the chaos around him.
The leader of the riders smirked, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Adrian's jaw tightened, but he didn't press further. He knew better than to expect answers from mercenaries. Instead, he focused on the fight, his mind racing as he tried to find a way out.
---
By the time Isla managed to extricate herself from Lady Beatrice's clutches, the sun was beginning to set. She made her way to the gardens, hoping for a moment of peace, but found herself once again drawn to Rosaline's room. This time, when she knocked on the door, it was Clara who answered.
"She's awake," Clara said softly. "But she's… not in the best mood."
Isla nodded and stepped inside. Rosaline was sitting up in bed, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her complexion was still pale, but there was a spark of determination in her eyes that hadn't been there before.
"Evangeline," Rosaline said, her tone neutral. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I wanted to see how you were feeling," Isla said, folding her hands in front of her. "And to apologize."
"Apologize?" Rosaline repeated, raising an eyebrow. "For what?"
"For not protecting you," Isla said quietly. "For letting this happen."
Rosaline studied her for a moment, then sighed. "It wasn't your fault. I made my own choices, and I'll face the consequences."
Isla hesitated, then asked, "What about Louis?"
At the mention of his name, Rosaline's expression hardened. "What about him?"
"I heard him earlier," Isla said carefully. "He seemed… concerned."
Rosaline let out a bitter laugh. "Concerned? That's rich. Philip is only concerned about his own pride. He couldn't care less about me."
Isla frowned. "Are you sure about that?"
Rosaline's gaze softened slightly, but she shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Whatever we had, it's over."
Before Isla could respond, Clara entered the room, holding a small stack of letters. "Eva, these just arrived for you. They were left at the gate."
Isla took the letters, her stomach twisting with unease. The envelopes were plain, with no return address, but the handwriting was unmistakably familiar. She opened the first one and scanned the contents, her heart pounding as she read the words.
*"Beware the crown's shadow. The truth lies closer than you think."*
Her hands trembled as she folded the letter and looked up at Rosaline and Clara. "Something's wrong," she said quietly. "Something's very wrong."
---
Far from the safety of Blackthorn Manor, Adrian stood amidst the carnage of the ambush, his sword slick with blood and his chest heaving with exertion. The riders were gone—either dead or fled—but their words lingered in his mind.
"Your loyalty. Or lack thereof."