Chapter 3 The Hollow throne

(Isolde's POV)

The castle had not changed.

It still stood as it had in my childhood-monolithic, cruel in its beauty, its walls carved from black stone that swallowed the torchlight instead of reflecting it. The halls stretched endlessly before me, lined with towering columns, their marble veined with cracks older than the kingdom itself. Tapestries hung between them, depicting victories won in blood, great battles waged by kings who had long since turned to dust. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone, of smoldering firewood, of the quiet, lingering ghosts of those who had walked these corridors before me.

And yet, beneath the weight of familiarity, there was something different. A quiet decay, a sense of something rotting beneath the surface. The castle was not as I remembered it. The torches flickered too weakly. The banners hung lower, their edges frayed. The stone walls, once gleaming with the touch of wealth and power, now seemed dull, as if time itself had begun to forget them.

My father's kingdom was dying.

I had known this before I arrived-had heard the whispers of war, the rumors of crumbling alliances, the desperation that had driven him to summon me back after so many years. And yet, standing here now, walking these endless halls with a guard at my back and silence pressing in on all sides, I felt the truth of it settle into my bones.

A kingdom at war. A throne on the verge of ruin.

And I was to be its offering.

The thought clenched at something deep within me, but I did not let it show. My steps did not falter as I was led deeper into the castle, through corridors I had once run through as a child, my laughter echoing against the stone. That girl was gone now, buried beneath years of careful restraint, of lessons learned in the cold halls of another's home. I had been raised to be obedient, to be silent, to know my place. But I had also been raised to watch, to listen. And as I walked, I saw everything.

The tension in the guards' shoulders. The servants who moved too quickly, their eyes downcast. The empty spaces where once there had been noble courtiers, lingering in the halls like predators waiting for blood.

The kingdom was afraid.

And I had been brought here for a reason.

The great doors to the throne room loomed ahead, carved with scenes of conquest and divinity, the hands of forgotten artisans having shaped the stories of gods and kings into the wood. My breath was steady as the guards stepped forward, pressing against the heavy doors, and the silence shattered as they groaned open.

The throne room was vast, its vaulted ceiling stretching so high it seemed to vanish into darkness. Torches lined the walls, their light flickering against the polished marble floor. At the far end of the hall, upon the dais of the Hollow Throne, my father sat.

King Aldric. The Wolf King. The man whose blood ran through my veins.

His face was a mask of cold authority, carved from stone and shadow, his dark eyes sharp beneath the heavy crown upon his brow. He was not old, but there was something weathered about him, something brittle beneath the iron exterior. A man who had spent his life carving power from the bones of his enemies, and yet now found his own kingdom slipping through his grasp.

He looked at me, and I did not bow.

Not at first.

Not until I felt the weight of the court's eyes upon me, the silence thick with expectation. Then, slowly, deliberately, I lowered myself into a curtsy, my skirts whispering against the marble floor. A shallow bow. Nothing more.

When I rose, his gaze had not left me.

"My daughter," he said, the words smooth, absent of warmth. "You have returned."

A statement, not a welcome.

I met his eyes and forced a smile, careful, calculated.

"You summoned me, Your Grace," I replied. "And I have come."

There was a flicker of something in his gaze-approval, perhaps, or amusement. But it vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by something colder.

"You have been away too long," he said, his voice carrying across the chamber, measured, regal. "Much has changed."

I did not flinch.

"I can see that," I murmured.

For a moment, he simply watched me. Measuring. Calculating.

And then he leaned forward, his fingers drumming once against the arm of his throne.

"You will marry Lord Varian within the month."

The words struck like a blade between my ribs, though I did not let it show.

Lord Varian. My betrothed. A man I had never met, but whose name I knew well enough. The warlord. The king's most ruthless general. The man who had razed entire villages, who had carved his name into the histories of this kingdom with blood and steel.

A man twice my age. A man whose first two wives had not survived him.

I had expected this. Had known that my return to court would come with a price. But knowing and hearing it spoken aloud were two different things.

Still, I did not let my expression falter.

"As you command, Your Grace," I said, my voice steady.

The king watched me for a long moment.

Then he smiled.

A slow, satisfied thing.

"You are your mother's daughter," he murmured.

And for the first time, a flicker of unease slid down my spine.

Because my mother was dead.

Because my mother had been executed for treason.

And I did not yet know why.