(R-18 Mature Scenes)
Isolde learned very quickly that marriage did not buy privacy.
If anything, it erased what little she had been allowed before.
Her new residence lay within the inner ring of the palace—closer to the Empress's quarters, farther from the wings assigned to unmarried daughters. The architecture was grand in the way of imperial gifts: tall ceilings, gilded moldings, silk hangings chosen not for comfort but for display. Every corner of the suite announced that it was meant to be seen.
Servants filled the space like clockwork, efficient and tireless. They adjusted draperies, lit lamps, and rearranged cushions that would never be used. Incense burned faintly—traditional, symbolic, carefully measured. Isolde stood still while hands moved around her, dressing her not as a woman but as a declaration.
This was not preparation.
It was documentation.
The chief attendant—a woman old enough to have served two generations of princesses—cleared her throat softly. "The bedding ceremony will not be required, Your Highness," she said. "But there will be witnesses to the doors being closed."
Of course there would be.
Isolde inclined her head. "As tradition requires."
"As tradition requires," the woman echoed, her eyes sharp, searching Isolde's face for embarrassment, for fear, for anything that might be reported later.
Isolde offered none.
She watched instead—memorizing where servants lingered longest, which corners were too carefully ignored, where guards shifted their weight as if bored but never left their posts. This chamber was not merely a bedroom.
It was a stage.
Somewhere beyond these walls, the court waited to measure how the disgraced general would settle into his new humiliation. They would listen for raised voices. For struggle. For proof that Isolde Lysoria was overwhelmed by the man they had given her.
The idea almost made her smile.
Almost.
When the attendants finally withdrew, they did so reluctantly, lingering just long enough to establish presence before retreating. The guards outside the chamber took their positions with deliberate noisiness—boots striking stone, halberds adjusting.
The message was clear.
Nothing that happened tonight would be unwatched.
Isolde moved to the window and stared out over the palace grounds, where lanterns glimmered like fallen stars. Somewhere beyond those walls lay the empire she intended to rule.
Not yet.
Not openly.
Behind her, the door opened again.
Marcus entered alone.
He paused just inside the threshold, the door closing behind him with a deliberate finality. The guards' voices murmured briefly outside—confirmation of protocol—before receding.
Marcus stood tall, still wearing the dark uniform assigned to him since his disgrace. It bore no insignia, no markers of rank. Only clean lines and the unmistakable fit of a soldier who had never learned to slouch.
His gaze flicked once around the chamber.
"So," he said quietly. "This is where they expect us to perform."
Isolde turned.
She had already changed.
The ceremonial sleep garments were thin by design, pale fabric falling loosely over her frame. Tradition dictated softness—femininity, vulnerability—signals meant to reassure observers that the political binding was complete. Her hair had been unbound as well, dark waves falling forward to partially veil her face, as she usually preferred.
She clasped her hands together, fingers twisting faintly.
"I believe," she said hesitantly, "that we are expected to remain inside until morning."
Marcus's mouth tightened. "They want proof."
"Yes."
"And obedience."
"I believe so."
He studied her in silence, his expression unreadable.
Isolde lowered her gaze further, allowing her shoulders to slope, her posture to soften. She took a step toward the bed and sat at its edge, careful and unsure, as though uncertain where she was permitted to be.
If anyone were listening beyond the walls, they would hear exactly what they expected.
"I… I do not know what I am meant to do," she said softly.
Marcus understood at once.
His stance shifted—not relaxing, but aligning. He moved farther into the room, letting his boots scuff lightly against the floor, deliberately loud.
"They will expect us to," he said, raising his voice slightly. "Or not. It won't matter."
Isolde nodded. "I will… do my best."
She let silence stretch, awkward and fragile.
Marcus crossed the room and sat on the bed—an unsubtle refusal that would nonetheless be interpreted as restraint rather than defiance. He leaned back, folding his arms.
"We can sit," he said. "That should suffice."
"Yes," Isolde agreed. "I would prefer that."
Outside the chamber, a guard shifted.
The performance continued for several minutes—measured words, pauses that could be mistaken for nerves. Isolde spoke little. Marcus responded sparingly. To any listening ear, it would sound like a mismatched pair navigating obligation with discomfort.
"They won't leave until they make sure we do our marital duty." Marcus sighed.
"I am afraid so." Isolde blushed in response.
She does not know what she was meant to do, but she had been educated with the marital obligations of couples. It was that she does not have any experiences with the opposite sex before.
"Then please forgive me," Marcus closed their distance in bed. "They will not leave until they hear something from us."
"W-What do you…" Isolde was startled with the close proximity.
"I believe I am permitted to do this, since we are already married." he said.
Marcus' lips pressed against hers. Isolde was tense at first but then trusted him on what to do next.
He pushed her on the bed while their lips still intertwined. His hands brushed her ankles and made its way to her thighs until they reached in-between.
"W-What?!" Isolde was shocked.
"Trust me…" Marcus whispered in her ears. "Don't hold back your voice."
Something sounded wet from below her, something she had never felt before.
"Ahhh…" Isolde let out a moan. Something sweet in Marcus' ears.
He pressed even further until they slid inside.
"Ahhh…" she moaned even sweeter. "M-Marcus…"
"Don't fight it." he replied.
He moved even fiercer until Isolde's body was in a brink.
"Ahhhhh…" Isolde moaned in ecstasy. Her body convulsed uncontrollably.
So, this was what she had read on those marital books. Isolde thought.
"Are you alright?" Marcus asked and she nodded in response. "Good, that would at least keep those outside in bay.
The steps outside died down. No more voices can be heard.
Only when the palace settled into deeper quiet did Isolde finally lift her head.
The change was immediate.
Her hands stilled. Her shoulders straightened. Her voice, when she spoke again, lost its wavering softness.
"They will not listen after the second bell," she said calmly. "The night watch changes then."
Marcus's eyes sharpened. "You're certain?"
"Yes. They assume exhaustion will follow." Isolde replied.
He exhaled slowly. "Then we have time."
Isolde rose from the bed and moved to the table, lighting an additional lamp. The thin fabric of her garments caught the light, pale and almost translucent at the edges, but she seemed entirely unaware of it now—focused only on function.
She gestured to the chair opposite him.
"Sit closer," she said. "We should appear… occupied."
Marcus hesitated only a moment before complying.
The first mask had been worn.
It was time to remove it.
Isolde reached beneath the table and withdrew a folded bundle of parchment. Maps—small, carefully copied, marked with annotations in a precise hand.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You prepared."
"I have been preparing for years," Isolde replied.
She spread the maps between them, weighing the corners with small objects so they would not curl. Border lines, garrison locations, supply routes. Not the grand displays used in council chambers, but working documents—practical, lived-in.
Marcus leaned forward despite himself.
"These are current," he said. "Some of them… too current."
"I listen," Isolde said simply.
His gaze lifted to her face, assessing anew.
"You chose tonight," he said. "Not merely because it was convenient."
"No," Isolde agreed. "Because tonight is deniable."
He gave a short, humorless breath. "Because it is a marital night?"
"Yes." she replied.
"Clever." he complimented.
She did not smile.
"We must move slowly," Isolde said. "If I am to contest the Crown Princess seat, it cannot look like ambition."
Marcus's finger traced a familiar route on the map. "It will, eventually."
"Yes. But not yet." she said.
She met his eyes steadily.
"The first step is not the council," she continued. "Nor the Temple. Those are visible, loud, and dangerous."
"What, then?" Marcus asked.
"The army," Isolde said.
He stilled.
"Not control," she clarified. "But allegiance."
Marcus leaned back slightly, studying her. "You know I have no command anymore."
"I know you have no title," Isolde replied. "That is not the same thing."
His jaw tightened.
She pressed on. "You fought the last war on the western border," she said. "You bled with them. You stood when supply lines failed. You did not abandon wounded units to preserve optics."
Marcus said nothing.
"Soldiers remember that." Isolde said quietly. "They remember who stayed."
His voice was low when he finally spoke. "Loyalty without authority is dangerous."
"So is authority without loyalty," Isolde replied.
She shifted the map slightly, indicating several garrisons. "These units were once under your command."
"Yes." he nodded.
"They are no longer," he said.
"No," Isolde agreed. "Which is why they are safe to approach indirectly."
Marcus's brow furrowed. "You intend to—"
"I intend to fund relief," Isolde said. "Veteran aid. Border widows. Rehabilitation for wounded soldiers."
His eyes narrowed. "Charity."
"Imperial charity," she corrected. "Publicly attributed to grief. To inexperience. To misplaced kindness."
Marcus considered her in silence.
"And privately?" he asked.
"Privately," Isolde said, "it establishes obligation. Gratitude and memory."
A quiet fell between them.
"You are thinking like a ruler," Marcus said at last.
Isolde's gaze flickered—just once.
"I am thinking like someone who cannot afford to fail," she said.
Marcus's attention drifted back to the map, then—unconsciously—to her. The lamplight caught her hair, which had slipped further loose, no longer hiding her face. Without the veil of it, her expression was clear—focused, intent, utterly unadorned by pretense.
He noticed, suddenly, how young she was.
And how composed.
Without thinking, he reached out and gently pushed a lock of hair back from her eyes so she could see the markings he was indicating.
The contact was brief.
Necessary.
He froze the moment his fingers brushed her skin.
Isolde did not pull away.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Marcus became acutely aware of her closeness—the warmth of her, the steady concentration in her eyes, the thin fabric that did nothing to disguise the fact that she was very real, very present. What had just happened on the bed a while ago.
He withdrew his hand at once.
"Forgive me," he said stiffly.
"There is nothing to forgive," Isolde replied evenly. "We are already married by law."
She returned her attention to the map as if nothing had occurred.
But Marcus did not.
The realization settled uncomfortably in his chest—not desire, not yet, but recognition.
She was not fragile.
She was dangerous.
And, gods help him, she was beautiful when she forgot to hide.
Outside the chamber, the palace remained deaf to the war being planned within.
Inside, the door held.
And for the first time since his disgrace, Marcus felt the stirrings of something he had not expected to feel again.
Purpose.
The maps remained spread between them, weighted at the corners with a bronze candlestick and a small carved stone Isolde had taken from the window ledge. The lamplight warmed the parchment, softening ink into something almost alive.
Marcus leaned closer, the earlier stiffness gone. What replaced it was the unmistakable focus of a commander presented with a problem worth solving.
"Relief funds will draw attention," he said. "Even if you frame them as grief-driven charity."
"Yes," Isolde replied. "But not suspicion. Not yet."
She traced a route with her fingertip—light, precise. "I will not funnel resources through the War Ministry. That would alert my eldest sister's faction immediately."
"Then how?" he asked.
"Through imperial benevolence offices," Isolde said. "They already administer aid after campaigns. I will expand the mandate. Modestly."
Marcus considered. "You'll need names."
"I have them," Isolde said. "Widows first. Medics second. Veterans who were discharged without land or stipend."
"Those men talk," Marcus said.
"They remember," Isolde corrected. "And they listen."
She lifted her gaze to him. "You will not issue orders."
"No," Marcus agreed. "I cannot."
"You will receive letters," Isolde continued. "Requests for advice. For recommendations. For assessments."
"Unofficial," he said.
"Entirely," she replied. "You will respond as a private citizen."
Marcus nodded slowly. "They'll come to me anyway. They always did—before the banners."
Isolde exhaled. "Then the work begins."
He studied her for a long moment. "You understand that this does not give you an army."
"It gives me time," Isolde said. "And silence."
Marcus's mouth curved faintly. "Silence is worth more than swords."
"Yes," she agreed. "Until it isn't."
They shifted the maps again, marking garrisons that had lost men in the western war. Marcus spoke in a low voice—names, temperaments, old grudges, and loyalties. He spoke of captains who valued honor over promotion, of lieutenants who had buried friends with their own hands.
Isolde listened.
She did not interrupt.
When he finished, she gathered the parchments neatly, stacking them as if this were nothing more than a late-night pastime.
"It must look like nothing," she said. "Kindness. Ignorance. A girl playing at generosity."
"And if someone tests it?" Marcus asked.
"Then we will see who still remembers you," Isolde replied.
The words settled between them—quiet, consequential.
The second bell rang in the distance.
Isolde counted the echoes. When the last faded, she stood and went to the door, pressing her ear lightly to the wood. The corridor beyond was still. The listening had ended.
She returned to the table.
"This is where we decide," she said.
Marcus straightened. "Decide what?"
"Whether this remains theory," Isolde said, "or becomes commitment."
She reached into the sleeve of her robe and withdrew a thin strip of parchment—blank, unsealed. She placed it between them.
"No signatures," she said. "No witnesses. Nothing that can be found."
Marcus frowned. "An oath?"
"An understanding," Isolde replied. "If we are discovered, there must be nothing that proves intent."
He considered, then nodded once.
She met his eyes. "I will not command you as a consort."
"I wouldn't accept it," he said.
"I know," Isolde replied. "I will ask you as an ally."
"And if I say no?" he asked.
"Then you leave at dawn," Isolde said calmly. "Alive. Unbound. Watched, but free."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "You would risk losing the only advantage you have."
"I would risk losing a man who does not choose this," Isolde said. "That is not an advantage. It is a liability."
Silence followed—long, weighted.
At last, Marcus stepped back from the table and knelt. Not fully. One knee to the stone, spine straight, head inclined but not lowered.
"I will not be owned," he said.
"I will not own you," Isolde replied.
"I will not fight your wars blindly."
"I will tell you why each battle matters," Isolde said.
"I will not promise victory."
"I will promise purpose," Isolde said.
Marcus drew a steady breath. "Then I will stand with you," he said. "Until you release me—or until one of us falls."
Isolde inclined her head. "Then we are agreed."
No blood was drawn. No god invoked. No words of love or fealty spoken.
The oath held anyway.
The night wore on.
They returned the chamber to its expected disorder—maps folded away, the table cleared, the bed turned down. Isolde loosened the lamp wicks and extinguished one, leaving the room dim and intimate in the way watchers would expect.
Marcus removed his boots and set them neatly by the chair.
"This will be reported," he said quietly.
"Yes," Isolde replied. "In the most boring way possible."
She moved to the bed and sat, arranging the coverlet as if she were exhausted. Marcus took the chair again, this time angling it closer, casting his shadow across the wall.
They spoke little after that. They did not need to.
Outside, guards murmured. A servant passed once, paused, then moved on.
The palace heard what it wanted to hear: the deep moans, quiet voices, the absence of scandal.
At some point, Isolde closed her eyes.
Not to sleep—but to think.
She saw the steps ahead as clearly as the maps: relief ledgers filed, names remembered, gratitude cultivated. A general's shadow stretching quietly back across the borderlands. A court that would mistake patience for weakness.
She opened her eyes to find Marcus watching the door.
"Get some rest," he said softly. "Dawn will bring questions."
"I know," Isolde replied. "They always do."
The morning bell rang.
Sunlight crept across the chamber, pale, and forgiving. Isolde rose before the servants arrived, smoothing her robe, binding her hair once more into the familiar curtain that hid her face.
Marcus stood as well, composed, unreadable.
The knock came—polite, expectant.
"Your Highness," the chief attendant called. "May we enter?"
Isolde glanced at Marcus.
He inclined his head once.
"Yes," Isolde said softly.
The doors opened. Servants flooded in with practiced efficiency, eyes flicking to the bed, the chair, the disarray they had been trained to read. Satisfaction softened their features. Notes were made—mental, immediate.
All was as it should be.
When they withdrew, Isolde and Marcus exchanged a single look.
Outside, the palace stirred. Somewhere, Princess Valerica would hear that the humiliation had taken. Somewhere else, Severian Blackthorne would decide this binding had succeeded.
Isolde stepped to the window.
Beyond the palace walls, the empire waited—unaware that its soldiers were being remembered.
Marcus joined her, standing just far enough away to preserve propriety.
"This is only the beginning," he said.
"Yes," Isolde replied. "But beginnings decide endings."
He watched the light gather on the city below.
"For what it's worth," Marcus said, after a moment, "they chose the wrong night to bind you."
Isolde's lips curved—not into a smile, but into something sharper.
"They chose the right one," she said. "They just misunderstood what it meant."
Behind them, the bed stood untouched in the way that mattered least.
Ahead of them, a quiet war had begun.