The night before the banquet was unnervingly quiet. Isolde lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, her unease growing. The events of the past week churned in her mind—the Empress’s schemes, Danelle’s veiled warnings, and the strange silence that had settled over the palace.

Her wedding to the Emperor was two days away, yet it felt like the calm before a storm. The Empress, too, had been absent, her worsening morning sickness serving as an excuse to avoid Isolde altogether.

Unable to shake the foreboding, Isolde swung her legs off the bed and reached for the water jug on her bedside table. As she sipped, her instincts prickled. The silence was too perfect, the kind that cloaked unseen danger.

Her assassin’s knife, always within reach, caught her eye. She grabbed it and, without hesitation, hurled it into the shadowed corner of the room.
A grunt echoed, followed by movement—then chaos.

A figure leapt out of the darkness, followed by another. No… five assassins. Their blades glinted menacingly in the moonlight, their eyes cold with intent. Isolde, still in her nightgown, cursed her disadvantage.

The room was too confined for a proper fight, so she made a snap decision. With a burst of speed, she dove through the open window, landing lightly on the grass below. The cool night air hit her skin as she scanned her surroundings.
But she wasn’t alone.

More assassins emerged from the shadows. Ten. Fifteen. Expert killers, their movements precise and disciplined.

“Father!” Isolde hissed under her breath, her irritation boiling over. “If this is another one of your tests, you could’ve at least warned me!”

Before she could finish venting, the first assassin lunged at her, his blade slicing through the air. She dodged narrowly, the sharp edge grazing a strand of her hair.

Isolde didn’t wait. She darted toward the nearest tree, using its height to gain an advantage. A blade thrown by one of her attackers lodged into the trunk beside her. Without hesitation, she yanked it free, arming herself.
“Fine,” she muttered, gripping the blade tightly. “Let’s see if you’re worth my time.”

The assassins swarmed, their strikes coordinated and relentless. Isolde relied on speed and agility, dodging their blows with the grace of a dancer. Her nightgown was no armor, but it gave her freedom of movement.
From her perch, she launched a counterattack, disarming one assassin and using his weapon to deflect another’s strike. Yet for every one she outmaneuvered, another took their place.

Isolde knew that one mistake can cost her life, this was final test of Sable family, wining the trust of the subordinates by defeating them. Adrenaline surged through her veins. She leapt from the tree to the ground, rolling to evade a pair of blades aimed at her chest. Her mind raced, calculating her next move.

Despite the odds, a grim smile tugged at her lips. Her father’s brutal training, the countless nights spent mastering combat—this was the moment it all became worthwhile.

The assassins pressed forward, but Isolde held her ground. One by one, she began to turn their precision against them. It wasn’t enough to defeat them outright, but she could see their frustration building.

A blade nicked her arm, drawing blood. Isolde barely flinched, her focus unbroken. “If this is the best you’ve got,” she taunted, her voice steady despite her labored breathing, “you’re in for a long night.”

The battle raged on, the quiet of the palace night shattered by the clash of steel. In the back of her mind, Isolde knew she couldn’t keep this up forever. But if she could outlast them, if she could find an opening—
The battle dragged on, each passing moment sharpening Isolde’s focus. Sweat dampened her nightgown as she evaded yet another blade, her movements fluid but her frustration mounting. With a deep breath, Isolde closed her eyes briefly, centering herself. When she opened them, her gaze was sharp as steel. Channeling her power, she extended her hand, her voice calm yet commanding. 

“Rise.” 

From the shadows around her, spectral figures emerged—her Shadow Army. Formless yet fierce, they moved with silent purpose, their dark shapes blending into the night. 

The assassins faltered for the first time, their confidence shaken. They turned their attention from Isolde to the encroaching figures. 

The shadows didn’t kill—they incapacitated with precise strikes, disarming and subduing the assassins one by one. The clash of steel quieted, replaced by the subdued groans of defeated attackers. 

When the last assassin dropped to his knees, the others followed suit, bowing their heads before Isolde in submission. 

Isolde lowered her hand, her breathing steady as she took in the scene. She had passed. 

A slow clap echoed through the night. Isolde turned, her knife still in hand, to see the Duke of Sable stepping forward. His expression was inscrutable, though a faint glimmer of approval flickered in his eyes. 

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “It seems you’ve finally proven yourself an eligible heir. The assassins recognize your authority now. All that remains is for you to kill me and take my place.” 

Isolde frowned, unimpressed. “Drop that nonsense. I’m not playing your games tonight.” She sheathed her knife. “Where is Mother?” 

The Duke’s expression softened slightly, though he hid it well. “She’s resting at the Capital mansion after traveling for days. You’ll see her tomorrow at the banquet.” 

“Good,” Isolde replied curtly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. 

The Duke stepped closer, lowering his voice. “A word of caution, Isolde. The Empress has deeper connections than you might think. Watch your step.” 

Isolde’s jaw tightened. “I always do.” 

The Duke’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “I don’t doubt it. Until tomorrow.” 

With that, he turned, the defeated assassins silently following him into the shadows. 

Isolde stood alone beneath the moonlight, the tension of the night slowly easing. Her shadowy army dissipated, melting back into the night from which they came. 

She glanced down at the shallow cut on her arm, a reminder of the night’s events. Proven heir or not, the real battles were yet to come. 

With a resolute sigh, she turned back toward the palace. Tomorrow’s banquet would be a stage—not for celebration, but for maneuvering, for survival. 

Isolde knew the Empress wouldn’t sit idly by. But then, neither would she. 

To be continued....