Through the Velvet Veil
Isla’s POV
Isla stood at the far end of her chambers, half-wrapped in a linen robe and trying to piece together what had just happened.
Lachlan had left.
Abrupt. Silent.
The slamming door was still echoing in her chest.
She had barely asked him anything. Had tried to be calm. Rational.
And still, something in her questions had triggered him.
The mating ceremony.
The war.
Her presence.
She couldn’t make sense of his silence.
There was a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said.
It creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped in—rose-blonde hair pulled into a loose braid, calm blue eyes meeting hers with quiet grace.
“Morning, Princess,” Fenella said softly, setting a gown across the bench near the wardrobe. “They sent word. You’re expected in the main hall for breakfast.”
Isla sat up, still half-wrapped in the robe. “With the king and queen?”
Fenella nodded. “And General Lachlan. Lord Alastair.”
Right. Of course.
Fenella moved to help her dress, hands practiced but gentle.
“The palace felt quieter yesterday,” Isla murmured.
“The lockdown,” Fenella replied. “Security doubled after the attempt. No formal gatherings, even staff kept to their quarters.”
Isla hesitated. “Did you hear anything… about the war?”
Fenella’s expression stayed neutral. “Only that Dracona has resurfaced. That they’re using magic not seen in decades.”
Isla's stomach tightened. “Black magic?”
Fenella nodded once. “So the whispers say.”
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Fenella lifted the velvet gown, helping Isla slip into it with care. “You’ll be safe here,” she said. “I promise.”
Isla nodded, grateful for the quiet confidence in her voice.
\---
Once dressed, Isla stepped into soft shoes and followed Fenella down the corridor. The palace had been eerily quiet the day before. After the assassination attempt, every hall had been patrolled, every window enchanted. Meals had been delivered behind locked doors. Even the staff moved like whispers through fog.
But today, the ward lifted.
The halls gleamed again—sunlight pouring through crystal-paned windows, casting rainbows across the marble. Guards stood formal by archways, and the scent of honeyed pastry wafted from distant kitchens.
Yet Isla’s steps didn’t feel steady. Each one felt observed.
Two sentinels opened the heavy doors to the main hall.
She walked inside.
The dining room was cavernous, lined with massive windows and stone pillars carved into spiraling vines. A long table stretched across the space, laden with gleaming plates, goblets of faceted glass, and folded napkins shaped like birds.
The king and queen sat in throned chairs at the head.
Lachlan sat to the right of the king.
Alastair to the left.
Isla was guided gently to the seat beside Lachlan.
He didn’t look at her.
She didn’t say anything at first. She wasn’t even sure how to begin.
The table glinted around her—silver forks, crystal spoons, a pitcher etched with dragons. Even the butter was shaped into miniature roses.
She should have been impressed.
Instead, she felt like she was wearing someone else’s skin.
She reached for the goblet and took a slow sip.
The queen leaned toward her with a smile. “You’re radiant this morning, Isla. That shade suits you.”
“Thank you,” Isla said. “Fenella picked it out.”
Lachlan moved slightly beside her, but his eyes stayed on his plate.
The king cleared his throat. “I trust you’re settling in well. The castle can be… overwhelming.”
“It’s beautiful,” Isla replied. “Truly.”
Alastair leaned in with a playful glint. “The velvet does suit you, Isla. I think my mother undersold it.”
Isla blinked, startled—but he smiled easily.
“Half the court’s probably taking notes,” he added. “Including my tailor.”
She smiled faintly, brushing her fingers along the embroidered cuff.
Across the table, Lachlan’s hand stilled on his goblet. His gaze flicked toward his brother, sharp but unreadable.
Alastair turned back to the king’s remark. “Overwhelming is fair. There are still rumors of ghosts wandering the third gallery—Chancellor Greer’s spirit swears vengeance on poorly placed statuary.”
The queen rolled her eyes. “He died peacefully in his garden.”
“Which is precisely why his ghost is furious,” Alastair said. “He hated roses.”
Isla laughed—quiet at first, then full.
The tension in her spine loosened by degrees. Maybe not all royalty were sharp edges and war maps. Maybe some were just… human.
“You’ve never seen ghosts in your home?” Alastair asked lightly.
“No,” Isla replied. “Breakfast at home was simpler. Bread, stewed fruit… nothing like this.” She glanced around at the crystalline goblets and butter roses. “And far fewer eyes watching.”
Alastair grinned. “That’s the castle charm. Eat too slowly, and the portraits judge you.”
Isla laughed again, freer now.
She reached for the honey pot at the center of the table—just as Lachlan did.
Their hands brushed.
She paused. He didn’t move his hand.
And then—as she pulled the honey ladle back—his other hand gently settled on her thigh beneath the velvet folds.
Not possessive.
Not cold.
Just quiet.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.
Her pulse shifted.
Alastair kept talking, something about the queen’s habit of hiding pastries from the staff.
But Isla wasn’t listening.
Because under silver forks and crystal light, between laughter and ghosts, something in Lachlan tethered itself to her again.
But still—he said nothing.
The queen reached for her own goblet and turned back to Isla with a softer gaze. “Do you paint? Or sketch?” she asked. “The west tower has remarkable light in the mornings. Many of our guests enjoy it.”
“I draw sometimes,” Isla said, surprised. “Mostly flowers, simple things. I’m not particularly good.”
“That’s the charm,” the queen replied. “Art should be personal. Not perfect.”
Isla gave a small nod, still adjusting to the rhythm of this table.
Alastair leaned forward, elbows grazing the velvet runner. “Speaking of flowers—Father, I saw your steward move the hunting trophies again.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “They were obstructing the draught.”
“They were mounted over a fireplace. There shouldn’t be a draught.”
“Then perhaps that’s a fireplace problem,” the king muttered.
The queen chuckled quietly into her goblet.
“You remember the owl?” Alastair went on. “The one stuffed with feathers that weren’t its own?”
The king frowned. “That owl was regal.”
“That owl was offensive,” Alastair said. “It had five legs.”
“That was symbolic,” the queen said, managing not to laugh.
“It was a mistake,” the king admitted. “But it’s long buried.”
“In the cellar archives,” Alastair said, smirking. “I checked.”
Isla pressed her fingers to her mouth, stifling a laugh.
Lachlan shifted slightly beside her.
Then she smiled, broad and unfiltered.
She didn’t notice his gaze drift her way, sharp beneath the flicker of candlelight. Didn’t see the way his jaw softened just slightly—the line near his cheek relaxing into something like quiet awe.
He didn’t speak.
But he didn’t look away, either.
“Princess Isla,” the queen asked gently, “Have you walked the garden court yet? It blooms even in frost.”
“Not yet,” Isla said. “I wasn’t sure where I was allowed to go.”
“You’re family now,” the queen replied. “You’re allowed everywhere. Except perhaps the kitchen, unless you’re quick with a ladle.”
“That’s a dangerous game,” Alastair said. “We lost a steward to a soup boil last spring. He returned changed.”
Isla laughed again, light and real.
This time, she felt Lachlan’s fingers flex slightly beneath the velvet.
Not possessive.
Just present.