The carriage door swings wide, exhaling the scent of old velvet and lavender into the sharp, metallic air of the courtyard. Isolde Mereven steps onto the iron-veined gravel, her oxblood gown heavy against her ankles as the dusk wind bites at her throat. High above on the black-granite stairs, Prince Cassian stands as motionless as a gargoyle, his silver-threaded doublet catching the dying light. He does not offer a hand; he simply watches her arrive like a debt finally called to account.
"Welcome to the Court of Thorn, Lady Isolde," he says, his voice a low rasp that carries across the courtyard. "I trust the journey did not drain too much of the blood I require."
Isolde tilts her chin, her pulse drumming a frantic rhythm against the silk of her collar. He looks at me like a lock to be picked. Mara, her lady-in-waiting, lingers by the carriage door, her eyes darting toward the stone pillars with a sharp, bird-like intensity. The silence of the court is too heavy, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and ancient, predatory magic. A shadow detaches from the colonnade, its footfalls perfectly silent as it circles the back of her carriage.
