Chapter CXXIV: Wounds

Isabella's heart skipped a beat, terror rippling through her. She fought harder, thrashing in his grasp, but the man held her still, his grip unyielding. Just when she thought all hope was lost, a shadow darted into view. Pallor.

Without hesitation, Pallor launched himself at the man, tearing him away from Isabella. The two men tumbled to the ground, engaged in a vicious struggle. Isabella stumbled back, gasping for breath, and screamed for the guards as she watched the fight unfold before her.

The cloaked man fought with deadly precision, wielding a hand knife that gleamed in the dim light. Pallor, though a skilled warrior, was caught off guard by the man's swiftness. The blade slashed across his arm, then his leg, blood spilling from the wounds. Isabella’s heart pounded as she saw the stranger going for Pallor’s neck with a final, killing strike.

But Pallor managed to deflect the blow at the last moment, narrowly avoiding death. He fought back with raw determination, though bloodied and weakened by the injuries. Just as it seemed the assassin might overpower him, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. The guards burst into the corridor, swords drawn, and surrounded the cloaked man.

The assassin snarled in frustration, his eyes darting between Pallor and the approaching guards. He spun on his heel, attempting to flee, but the guards closed in. Within moments, they had him restrained, though the man still struggled violently.

Isabella rushed to Pallor’s side, her hands trembling as she tried to help him. His face was pale, and he was breathing heavily, but he gave her a reassuring nod.

Isabella rushed through the corridors of the palace, her heart racing as she made her way to the nursery. Panic clawed at her chest with every step, her thoughts fixated on her children. After the attack, all she could think of was their safety. When she finally reached the door, she flung it open and hurried inside, her eyes searching desperately.

A wave of relief washed over her when she saw Alicent gently rocking Zayr to sleep in her arms, while Ikkar and Rya were already in their cradles, peacefully dozing. The soft glow of the nursery’s lanterns cast a warm light over the room, but the tension in Isabella’s body didn’t ease until her eyes fell on each of her children, safe and untouched.

Alicent looked up from Zayr, her expression concerned. “What is going on?” she asked in a whisper, careful not to wake the sleeping infant in her arms.

Isabella crossed the room swiftly and bent down, kissing Zayr’s small head. She let out a relieved sigh, her hands trembling as she placed them on her baby’s soft skin. “I’ll explain everything later,” Isabella whispered back, her voice still unsteady from the ordeal. “The important thing is that they are safe.”

The council chamber was tense, the air thick with unease as Isabella strode in, her face a mask of fury. The knights of her guard and the lords of the council stood in silence, their gazes locked on the shackled and blindfolded man before them. Isabella’s anger was palpable, her footsteps sharp as she approached the gathered knights, her voice ringing out before anyone could speak.

“Why weren’t there any guards around the royal chambers?” she demanded, her eyes burning with rage. “How did this man get so close to me?”

One of the knights, head of her personal guard, stepped forward and bowed his head, his voice heavy with guilt. “Your Majesty, someone managed to distract the sentries during the shift change. We were—”
“Distracted?!” Isabella snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Your king was nearly killed because of your incompetence!”

The knight stiffened, but before he could respond, one of the lords, a seasoned older man with a calm demeanor, interjected. “Your Majesty, what matters most now is that both you and the king are safe. We must focus on finding out who sent this assassin to kill you.”

Isabella’s gaze turned icy as she looked at the lord. “This man wasn’t sent to kill me,” she said, her voice quieter but no less dangerous. “If he wanted to, he would have. He had the chance.”

She walked toward the prisoner, her eyes locked on him. “Long live the dragon,” she repeated his words. “Did the Dragon King pay you for this? For taking me back?”

Without waiting for an answer, Isabella reached out and ripped the blindfold from the man’s face. His eyes, cold and unflinching, met hers. He smirked, the cut on his lip bleeding slightly. “All I can say is that I’m certainly not the only one interested in returning the dragon king’s whore,” he spat.

The insult was met with immediate fury. Isabella’s hand shot forward and she punched the man square in the face. Pain shot through her knuckles, but it was worth it to see the shock in his eyes as blood gushed from his broken nose. The man grunted in pain, but his smirk only deepened.

Isabella clenched her fist, shaking it out to ease the sting, but she didn’t waver. Her voice was low and venomous as she spoke. “I am no one’s whore,” she hissed.

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, leaving the council and the prisoner behind.

Isabella entered Pallor’s chambers, her heart heavy with concern. He sat on the edge of his bed, his tunic open while a healer carefully tended to the wounds on his arms, ribs and legs. Despite his usual calm demeanor, the sight of him injured stirred something deep within her—a mix of guilt and worry.

“Are you alright?” Isabella asked, her voice soft but tinged with anxiety.

Pallor glanced up, offering her a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Just scratches, my queen, nothing to worry about.”

Still, she wasn’t convinced. She moved closer as the healer finished up as if to inspect if to make sure that he was doing a good job. Pallor quickly dismissed him with a nod. His eyes followed Isabella as she approached, concern etched in her features.

Isabella knelt beside him, her hands hovering over his bandaged arms, carefully inspecting the healer’s work. “These don’t look like just scratches,” she said quietly, her fingertips tracing the edges of his wounds. Her touch was light, almost tentative, as if she feared hurting him more.

Pallor remained still, watching her. “I’ve had worse,” he murmured, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed more than just physical pain.

Her hands moved to the bruises along his ribs, where the assassin’s blade had narrowly missed his vital organs. Her touch was gentle, a kind of silent apology. He had gotten hurt protecting her, saving her life. The weight of that sacrifice pressed heavily on her.

Isabella looked up, her gaze locking with Pallor’s. There was something unspoken between them, something she wasn’t sure she understood. Before she could stop herself, she leaned in, pressing her lips softly against his. The kiss was brief, tentative, as if she were testing the waters of something unfamiliar.

Pallor didn’t react immediately, his surprise evident in the slight stiffening of his posture. But then she kissed him again, this time a little more sure, a little more intentional. Her lips moved against his as if she was trying to make sense of the feelings swirling inside her.

In a swift, instinctive move, Pallor pulled her onto his lap. Isabella gasped, startled by the suddenness of it, her hands landing on his chest as she tried to remember his injuries. “Your wounds—”

He smiled, a rare, genuine smile that made her heart warm. “I don’t care,” he said, his voice low and filled with something raw. Then he kissed her, more forcefully this time, his hand tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss.

Isabella didn’t resist. Instead, she melted into the embrace, her hands gripping the fabric of his tunic as the kiss grew more urgent, more real. Pallor’s strength, even injured, was undeniable, and the way he held her made her feel something she hadn’t in a long time.