Lyra's heart pounded as Medea's furious voice echoed in her ears, sharp and unrelenting.
"How dare you dance with the prince? Have I taught you no proper manners? It's rude for a distinguished guest to dance with someone else other than the host. You should know better!" Medea spat, her words dripping with disdain.
Lyra tightened her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. It's okay... I can endure this... she thought to herself. If I do or say anything right now, it will hurt Father.
"It's because he asked..." Lyra finally said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.
"He asked, so you must be happy and didn't refuse, is that it?" Medea retorted, her anger mounting. "Did you have fun humiliating your kind cousin?!"
"Humiliate? How?" Lyra replied, her brows furrowing. "Isn't it disrespectful to say no to someone without any reason?"
"You could've said no if you wanted to," Medea snapped. "You didn't lose your tongue, did you?"
Karen, Medea's daughter, interjected sharply, her tone laced with irritation. "It's not impolite to say no when you could've presented your dear cousin in front of him! I supported you for so many years, and this is how you repay me? By bringing shame to my beloved daughter?!"
"I... shame? No..." Lyra tried to explain, her voice faltering.
"Forget it, Mother," Karen sneered. "She's cruel. She must be keenly enjoying all the eager eyes that were on her."
"That's not true..." Lyra said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Then what's true?" Karen challenged, stepping closer. "Look at you! You won't even apologize!"
Lyra's shoulders stiffened, and after a long pause, she murmured, "I... I am sorry if earlier what happened caused you to feel humiliated or shamed. It was not my intention."
Her apology came with clenched teeth, the anger beneath her polite words barely contained. Medea scoffed, a cruel smile curling on her lips.
"Ha! Do you foolishly think a mere person like you can humiliate me? You're barely on my level!"
"Mother!" Wily, Medea's son, cut in, his voice calm but firm.
"What your mother declared is right, dear brother," Karen said, glaring at Lyra. "She's just a nobody."
"That's enough!" Wily snapped. "She already apologized. You two should promptly stop this."
Karen tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Whatever. You can go now."
Medea turned back to Lyra, her gaze icy. "And you—stop allegedly taking her side," she said to Wily. "She should perceive what's wrong or right. It's purely for her better future if she grasps it beforehand."
Lyra didn't stay to hear more. Nibbling her lip with barely suppressed anger, she spun on her heel and hurried away. She walked far, so far that the grand party's glowing lights and melodious music faded into the distance. The private corridor she found herself in was dark and silent, a stark contrast to the chaos in her mind.
She stopped in front of a mirror, her reflection faint in the dim light. Her cheek bore faint scratches—barely visible but glaringly obvious to her. She cursed under her breath, letting her hair fall forward to hide the marks.
Meanwhile, Dylan paced in his quarters, his expression dark. Xavier had just reported the entire incident, his voice measured but his concern evident.
"That damn family!" Dylan hissed, his fists clenching. "Why isn't Lyra fighting back? She wasn't the type to be passive like this."
"Perhaps," Xavier suggested, "they have some sort of advantage over her?"
"What could that be?" Dylan asked, though his mind was already spinning with possibilities.
Abruptly, he made a decision. "I'll go to King Derek's quarters. Lyra invited me there earlier, and I'll make use of the opportunity."
In King Derek's room, Lyra arrived to find her sister Astrid waiting with him. She offered a small smile, knowing the warmth of her family would momentarily soothe her.
"Father," Lyra began tentatively, "I invited Dylan. He'll be joining us soon."
King Derek's face lit up with excitement. "Mary! Go fetch refreshments and tea. Delilah, bring out the best crockery. Astrid, you baked muffins this morning—do we still have them?"
Astrid nodded. "Of course, Father. I'll bring them. And the dessert Lyra made earlier."
"Wonderful!" Derek beamed, his happiness infectious. But Lyra's smile faltered as Medea's sharp words echoed in her memory. After the others left, she turned to Derek.
"Father," she said softly, "when will I become Queen?"
"On your twenty second birthday, of course," he replied.
"And Uncle Nabal and Aunt Medea?" she pressed. "Will they continue to live here?"
Derek's face grew serious. "What's going on, Lyra? Did something happen?"
"You know what happened," she said, biting her lip.
Derek sighed. "Lyra, I've told you before—overlook their mistakes. No matter what, they're family."
Lyra's frustration boiled over. "You keep saying that because they helped you in the past. But sometimes, even family can't be trusted!"
"Lyra!" Derek scolded, his voice stern. "Don't you know how much Nabal and Medea have done for us?"
"I never asked for their help!" Lyra burst out. "All I needed was you and Astrid."
Derek looked at her sadly but said nothing. Lyra clenched her fists, her anger spilling over. "Sometimes, strangers are more loyal than blood. You'll see that one day."
She stormed out before he could respond, her heart heavy with unspoken words.
Outside on the patio, Lyra splashed cold water on her face, the moonlight casting a pale glow around her. When she finally looked up, Dylan was standing there, his gaze steady and filled with concern.
"Oh, dear lord!" she exclaimed. "Do you always sneak up on people? You frightened me!"
Dylan smiled faintly and held out a napkin. "Are you all right?"
Lyra hesitated. "I felt feverish... just needed to cool off."
Her voice wavered, but Dylan didn't press her. Instead, his hand lifted instinctively, his fingers brushing her cheek. Lyra froze.
"There's something there," Dylan murmured, pulling back quickly.
Lyra cleared her throat, flustered. "Father is waiting for you. He hasn't been this excited in ages."
Dylan nodded, his expression softening. "Then let's not keep him waiting."
She longed to voice her grievances to her father, yet every word she suppressed felt like a lifeline to his fragile health. Restraining herself was both a choice and a duty she dared not forsake.
Stepping out into the stillness of the night, Lyra wandered to the secluded patio where a modest fountain bubbled softly at its heart. The only light that graced the space was the pale, unyielding glow of the moon. With a deep, deliberate breath, she leaned forward, submerging her anxious visage into the fountain's cool, glittering waters. The frigid embrace lingered for mere seconds before she emerged, droplets clinging to her like stardust.
She brushed her glossy hair back with practiced elegance, securing the golden chain that had slipped from her face. It was then that she noticed him—Dylan—standing silently under the moon's watchful gaze.
Her startled yelp broke the quiet. "Good heavens! Must you always appear so ghostlike? You frightened me half to death."
Dylan, ever composed, extended a napkin toward her, his expression marred by something unspoken—a flicker of pain that danced in his eyes. Flustered, Lyra avoided his gaze, her fingers trembling slightly as she accepted the cloth.
Moments earlier, Dylan had been en route to King Derek's chambers when he overheard their argument. The heated voices of Lyra and her father carried down the corridor, sharp and resonant. Before he could intervene, Lyra had stormed past him, her steps hurried and unyielding. He had called after her, but she was a whirlwind—untouchable and unhearing.
Now, under the moonlight, he ventured carefully, his voice steady but low. "Are you well?"
Lyra forced a laugh, light and airy as though to mask the weight of her turmoil. "Oh, yes. Just a touch of feverishness. The water seemed like the perfect remedy."
Dylan's gaze lingered on her, betraying his concern. His hand moved of its own accord, gently brushing her cheek, where a faint blush seemed to bloom under his touch. Lyra froze, startled by the unexpected intimacy.
"What," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, "are you doing?"
"There was something—" he hesitated, withdrawing his hand quickly. "Forgive me. I thought I saw something on your face."
Lyra pulled back slightly, her composure returning like a well-practiced melody. "I see," she said, smoothing her gown as if to erase the moment. Clearing her throat, she added, "You're free from the party, I take it? Father awaits you with more eagerness than I've seen in years."
Dylan nodded, his tone lighter now. "Is that so? Then I shan't keep him waiting. Shall we?"
The following morning, over breakfast in the intimate palace Lyra and her sister now called home, the men arrived once more.
"You both again?" Lyra quipped, her tone half-amused, half-exasperated.
Xavier grinned, his good humor shining through. "One might think we're persistent."
Lyra smiled faintly, her observant eyes taking in every detail. "Come in, then. Although I imagine your companions will hardly be stirring before noon after last night's revelries."
She led them into the private outdoor patio, where the modest charm of the palace revealed itself. Despite its royal title, the residence was far from grandiose—a townhouse by royal standards. Seven private bedrooms, a handful of sitting rooms, and a cozy library replaced the opulence of sprawling halls.
"I've asked Mary and Delilah to prepare breakfast," Lyra informed them, her voice clipped but polite.
Xavier inclined his head graciously. "Thank you, truly. We're sorry for imposing once more."
Lyra turned her focus on him, her gaze piercing. "You're a Viscount, are you not, Sir Xavier?"
Surprise flickered across both men's faces. Xavier, caught off guard, offered a hesitant nod. "That is correct."
"I thought as much. Your mannerisms betray your rank." She paused, her tone softening. "I'll not ask why you've chosen the path of an aide. Your story is yours alone. But I do hope you enjoy the meal."
Xavier inclined his head in gratitude. "You are most kind."
Later, in a quiet sitting room, Lyra faced Dylan.
"What did you say to Father?" Her voice was sharp, her stance unyielding.
"Say?" Dylan's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid I don't follow."
"You've asked me to join you on the trade discussions," she accused, her words quick and precise. "Why would you place such a condition?"
Dylan tilted his head, stepping closer. "Why, indeed," he mused, his tone teasing.
"Stop this at once and answer me," Lyra demanded, her cheeks flushing with irritation.
Dylan's expression softened, his voice quiet. "I wish to work with you, Princess. That's all."
Lyra hesitated, her frustration ebbing. "...And why would you wish for that?"
"Allow me to ask something of you in return," Dylan ventured, his voice lowering. "Why do you hide yourself away like this?"
Lyra stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are the future queen, are you not?" Dylan pressed. "Why would a queen allow herself to be overshadowed, trampled even?"
"I do not..." she faltered, her composure slipping.
"You live so far from the palace, from the people who need to see you, know you. Why?"
Lyra exhaled slowly, her gaze dropping. "It was... suffocating."
"Suffocating?" Dylan's voice was laced with disbelief. "Did they hurt you?"
"No!" Lyra's protest was swift. "No, they were... too caring."
"Too caring?"
"Yes," Lyra whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "I couldn't breathe under their constant watch."
Dylan regarded her with a mixture of understanding and frustration. "Even so, Princess, you must step forward. You cannot simply fade into the background."
"I don't intend to take the throne," Lyra declared, her voice resolute. "You need not concern yourself with me."
Dylan leaned closer, his voice a whisper, sharp as a blade. "And do you truly believe they'll let you live long enough to refuse it?"
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air.