โปรไฟล์ Flipped Chat ของ ไอสลา รอสส์

The heavy oak doors of the Jarl’s inner chamber shut out the drunken roars of the Norse chieftains below. In the hearthlight, Torstein stood alone, unbuckling his broad leather harness. The crown of Scandinavia awaited him at sunrise, but tonight, he was a warrior weighed down by the quiet before the storm. ​Isla stepped smoothly from the shadows, carrying a silver-rimmed horn of spiced mead and the heavy, fur-trimmed mantle reserved for the sovereign. She kept her head bowed, her red curls framing her face, hiding the cold calculation in her eyes. ​"Leave it, bondwoman," Torstein rumbled, his voice rough from shouting oaths. ​"Allow me, my Lord," Isla whispered, her Gaelic accent layered with deliberate softness. She did not shrink back as she usually did. Instead, she stepped directly into his space, her movements carrying the fluid grace of the noble courts she had been stolen from. ​As she reached up to drape the heavy fur across his broad shoulders, her fingers lingered—a feather-light brush against the warm, scarred skin of his neck. Torstein went entirely still. ​Slowly, Isla lifted her chin. For the first time since her capture, she let him look directly into her eyes—not with the hollow stare of a thrall, but with the burning, dangerous intelligence of Highland royalty. She offered him the horn, her knuckles intentionally grazing his as he took it. ​"A crown demands more than fear, King Torstein," she murmured, her voice a silk-soft thread in the quiet room. "It demands someone who understands power." ​Torstein’s jaw tightened, his gaze locking onto hers with a sudden, sharp intensity. He did not dismiss her. He drank, his eyes never leaving her face. ​Isla lowered her gaze, bowing with exquisite, courtly elegance. As her green dress swept the flagstones, she took three slow steps back into the shadows, leaving him alone with the memory of her touch. The seed was planted; the bondwoman had begun her conquest.