What We Don’t Say
Lachlan’s POV
The corridors of the royal palace stretched long and cold, carved from stone that whispered with echoes of old war and older betrayal. Lachlan’s boots struck the floor in sharp rhythm, each step a deliberate attempt to outrun the thoughts trailing him.
Isla’s scream.
Her blood on his hands.
The arrow—the way it pulsed with dark magic like something alive.
He should have slept. Should have shut his eyes and trusted the watch. But the fire in his chest hadn’t dimmed since he left her bedside. And now, summoned by the crown, he wore his armor not in defense—but as a promise.
Alastair waited outside the king’s chamber, cloak still scorched, his palms marked faintly from flame spells. He raised his brow as Lachlan approached but said nothing. The silence between them had sharpened since Isla’s collapse. Since Lachlan’s order to keep the assassin alive.
Inside the hall, gold banners swayed from tall windows, light bleeding in soft and deceptive. The king sat high on the obsidian throne, shadowed by advisors with silver-threaded robes and scrolls curled like serpents.
Alastair bowed low first. “The assassin’s arrow was intercepted. Enchanted with black magic—specific to tracking rituals. And the fletching bore the seal of Dracona.”
The chamber trembled. Whispers burst like sparks.
Dracona.
A kingdom lost to legend. A name banished from maps, thought to be consumed by its own curses generations ago.
Lachlan stepped forward. “This wasn’t a rogue strike. It was a message. They meant to mark her. And if we don’t answer... more will come.”
The king’s expression didn’t flicker, but he leaned forward slowly. “War, then.”
Lachlan nodded. “I’ll lead the army. I’ll march at your command.”
A murmur of agreement rose from the advisors. The steward scribbled orders already. Supply lists, alert dispatches. Scouts would be deployed before nightfall. The wheel had turned.
But Lachlan’s thoughts refused to follow.
His focus returned to Isla’s face—pale against firelight, blood painting her arm, voice raw when she asked if he trusted her.
The king interrupted his silence. “And the Princess?”
“She remains protected,” Lachlan said sharply. “She stays within the warded chambers.”
The king gave the faintest nod. “Until the threat is extinguished.”
Not exactly permission. But not refusal, either.
Lachlan turned to go—but Alastair caught his arm.
“Are you sure this is the right move?” he asked, voice low. “Leaving her behind. Rushing to war.”
Lachlan’s jaw clenched. “You heard the king. Dracona fired the first arrow.”
“But there are other ways. You’ve already thought about her safety—I know you have. But this war... is it necessary?”
“It’s for the kingdom. For the people.”
“What about her?” Alastair pressed. “She is now a part of you, Lachlan. She’s your wife.”
Lachlan snapped around, eyes lit like struck flint. “I know she’s my wife.”
Alastair stepped back slightly, but Lachlan closed the space between them.
“I know exactly what she is to me. And I will do as I see fit when it comes to her.” His voice shook—not from doubt, but from a fury rooted deeper than the surface. “This war is because of her. What more do you want from me?”
Alastair didn’t respond. He just stared at the man in front of him—the brother he once admired. The brother whose clarity and calm once anchored the battlefield. That brother was now eclipsed.
“My apologies, my lord,” Alastair said quietly.
He lingered for a second, back turned to his brother. But he didn’t look back. He simply walked away, every step pulling farther from the closeness they'd once shared.
A slow fracture. A widening silence.
Alastair didn’t speak again, but as he made his way down the corridor, one thought echoed behind his eyes:
Isla loves him.
Deeply. Entirely.
And when she learns Lachlan is going to war—because of her—it will devastate her.
Lachlan didn’t see that part yet. But Alastair did.
He saw it too clearly.
\---
Later, in a quieter corridor soaked in pale morning light, Lachlan pulled aside the royal steward.
“Lady Isla is to remain under watch,” he said. “Two guards minimum. Day and night. No one enters without my clearance.”
The steward nodded but hesitated. “There are whispers, General. Some say she may have—conjured something. Invited the mark.”
Lachlan’s voice dropped. “She did no such thing.”
“I believe you,” the steward said carefully. “But not everyone will.”
“She is not to be questioned. Not to be touched. Not to be undermined.”
“Understood.”
“And the Mating Ceremony,” Lachlan added. “Postponed. Indefinitely.”
The steward’s brows lifted, surprised. “Very well.”
He bowed and turned away into the palace’s bustle, already weaving through mages and scribes preparing wartime documentation.
Lachlan stayed behind for a moment. Something gnawed at his core.
Was he protecting Isla?
Or retreating from something he didn’t know how to face?
\---
Not far away, tucked between two carved stone columns, Mairi lingered in silence.
She had followed Lachlan—not out of malice at first, but curiosity. She’d seen the way he’d changed since Isla arrived. How his patrols shortened. How his gaze softened.
Now, she watched him speak of the princess with urgency. With care.
She saw how his face changed when he said her name.
She heard him postpone the ceremony meant to seal the bond between them.
Her breath went still.
But Mairi wasn’t just a jealous courtier.
She had once believed she mattered to him.
Lachlan hadn’t asked for her—his father had summoned the druids during Lachlan’s thirteen year, claiming the general needed "companionship suited to his bloodline." Mairi had arrived as a diplomatic offering. Powerful. Beautiful. Adept in ritual and rhythm.
But never once did Lachlan speak her name in public.
They had shared nights, yes.
Fevered, wordless, wild nights.
But by morning, the silence always returned. No questions. No affection. No promise. She was nothing more than a balm for his heritage, a convenience crafted by someone else's politics.
And now Isla was here.
Spoken of. Protected. Called “wife.”
Something inside Mairi twisted. Something she’d once buried beneath ritual and pride. The idea that maybe, just maybe, she had started to feel something beyond duty.
She turned deeper into the hallway, her breath steadying.
She wouldn’t be cast aside.
Not like this.
Not for her.
Her nails pressed into her palms.
She slipped into the shadows, invisible in her departure.
The seed had been planted.
Not by threat.
Not by fate.
But by jealousy.
And jealousy could fester faster than war.