When Dylan was nearly ten, the kingdom of Helios was engulfed in revolt. To shield the royal family, his father had sent him, his mother, and his brother to the neighboring Kingdom of Anemoi. They sought refuge for nearly a year, during which time Dylan formed an unexpected yet profound bond with the youngest princess, Lyra.
Lyra, a girl of his age, had an irrepressible spirit. Whether they were poring over books, playing games, or sneaking sweets from the kitchens, they had been inseparable. The last image Dylan had of her was burned into his memory: her tear-streaked face as she clung to her mother, her small hands balled into fists as though willing herself not to cry. And yet, she cried. Dylan, despite his stubborn attempts at composure, had cried too.
When they returned to Helios, the Queen of Anemoi—Lyra's mother—had passed suddenly. Dylan had wanted to visit, to comfort his friend, but the lingering political unrest in his own kingdom prevented it. The only solace was their letters. For years, they had written back and forth until, when they were thirteen, the letters abruptly stopped.
The news came shortly after: the King of Anemoi had fallen ill. His own father had visited Anemoi, yet Dylan himself could not. He had written letter after letter, pleading for a reply. Each time, the silence grew heavier. At fifteen, he gave up.
Now, seven years later, he was to meet her again. The prospect filled him with unease. Would she remember him? Would she even care?
Dylan's thoughts were cut short by Rosa, the maid tasked with escorting them.
"Instead of going to the hall, I would like to be shown to my room first," Dylan instructed, his voice polite yet firm. "The journey was long, and I should like to rest."
Rosa halted mid-step, turning with a confused expression. "Very well, I shall escort you to the quarters reserved for the scholars."
"Not there," Xavier interjected with a sharp edge. "The prince will go to the chamber prepared for him."
Rosa blinked, her brows furrowing in disbelief. "Pardon me?"
"You heard him," Xavier replied coolly.
Rosa's mouth parted in shock. A moment later, realization dawned, and she dropped into a hasty bow. "Forgive me, Your Highness, for failing to recognize you."
"It is quite all right," Dylan replied, waving off the apology. "Now, if you please, lead the way."
As they walked through the grand corridors of the palace, Dylan's gaze swept across the interiors. His brows furrowed slightly at the excessive opulence.
The Anemoi he remembered was understated, its halls imbued with elegance through simplicity. Lyra and her family had always favored minimalism, finding beauty in restraint. Now, gilded walls and ostentatious decor adorned every corner.
"The goldwork you observe was commissioned by Master Ariston, a renowned craftsman," Rosa said proudly, mistaking his silence for admiration.
Dylan nodded politely, though his thoughts were elsewhere. What has become of the Anemoi I knew?
When they reached his chambers, Dylan entered without a word. Xavier lingered behind, only for Rosa to prod him with an inquisitive tap on the shoulder.
"What did His Highness and that girl from the garden speak of?" she asked, her tone sharp with curiosity.
Xavier frowned. "Why do you care? I thought you said she was of little importance."
Rosa huffed indignantly. "It was a passing observation, nothing more. Dinner is in two hours. Ensure His Highness is present."
Before Xavier could retort, Rosa had flounced away.
Inside, Xavier relayed the interaction to Dylan, who leaned against the window frame, gazing out at the sprawling gardens.
"Do you think that girl was Lyra?" Dylan asked quietly.
"I do not think so," Xavier replied cautiously.
"But you yourself noted her attire was of royal quality," Dylan pressed.
"Yes, though many aristocrats have access to such fabrics."
Dylan's fingers drummed against the windowpane. "Her eyes…" he murmured. "They reminded me of her."
"Green eyes are not uncommon in Anemoi," Xavier reasoned.
Dylan glanced over, his golden eyes narrowing. "You think this is a fanciful notion, don't you?"
"I think," Xavier said with a hint of a smirk, "that if someone overheard you, Your Highness, they might accuse you of spouting poetic nonsense."
"Out," Dylan ordered with mock exasperation, pointing to the door.
Xavier chuckled but obliged. "If it eases your mind, the maid did mention the entire royal family would attend dinner. You'll have your answer then."
The dining hall was a testament to extravagance, with chandeliers dripping in crystal and gold accents adorning every surface. Yet despite the grandeur, Dylan's mood was sour.
He had expected the royal family to greet him, yet only Duke Nabal and his family were present. The King, he was told, was too ill to attend, and no mention was made of the princesses.
As he observed the seating arrangement, unease prickled at him. Duke Nabal sat at the head of the table—a place reserved solely for the monarch or the Crown Princess in his absence. Beside him sat his wife, Duchess Medea, her beauty rivaling the finest works of art. Her piercing blue-brown eyes flickered with calculated charm as she smiled demurely.
Dylan's place was at the Duke's left, with his sons, Wily and Hubris, beside him. Both were polite yet unremarkable in demeanor, though Dylan noted the arrogance in Wily's smile and the quiet, almost unsettling stillness of Hubris.
On the Duchess's right sat her daughter, Karen. She was as beautiful as rumored, her jet-black hair framing a delicate face. But the haughtiness in her expression betrayed her vanity, and Dylan found himself unimpressed.
He could not shake the sense that something was amiss. The seating arrangements, the ostentatious decor, the palpable tension beneath the family's polite facade—it all pointed to a deeper rot within Anemoi.
And then the doors opened.
All eyes turned as a figure entered. Dylan's breath caught.
She was older now, her features sharper, her presence commanding. Yet there was no mistaking her golden-brown hair, the gentle curve of her lips, or the foxlike glint in her eyes.
"I am here," she announced with a smile, her voice soft yet clear.
"Astrid," Dylan whispered, his gaze fixed on the eldest princess of Anemoi.