Lyra stared down at the letter in her hands, the ink smudging as tears threatened to spill. The busy square around her seemed to blur into nothingness, replaced by a suffocating silence. Despite the warmth of the breeze from the nearby market, a cold shiver ran through her. "My lady?" Mika's voice, usually so calm, was laced with concern. She blinked, quickly folding the parchment as if the simple motion could shield her from the heartbreaking news it carried. Straightening herself, she forced herself to meet his gaze. "We must return immediately."
"Return?" Dylan's voice broke through the haze, his eyes narrowing as he saw the paleness of her face. "What has happened?"
"My father..." Lyra's voice faltered, and she averted her gaze, her lips trembling. "My father is dead."
Dylan's expression softened, the usual stoicism melting into something more vulnerable. He reached for her, but she stepped back, shaking her head. "I need a moment," she managed to say, her voice shaking but firm. "Mika, prepare for our departure. We leave for Anemoi at dawn."
"As you wish, Your Highness," Mika responded, his voice thick with sympathy. Without another word, Lyra turned and walked toward the shaded part of the square, her cloak swirling behind her. She disappeared into the trees, seeking solitude in her grief. Dylan watched her go, his fists clenching. He moved to follow, but Mika's voice stopped him.
"She has always preferred to grieve alone," the knight said quietly, his tone understanding rather than scolding.
Dylan exhaled sharply, his jaw clenched. "She shouldn't have to."
"And yet, she insists," Mika said, bowing his head slightly. Before they could speak further, Dylan's aide approached, breathless, holding a sealed letter.
"Your Highness," the young man panted. "An urgent dispatch from Boreas."
Dylan grabbed the letter, tearing the seal with a swift motion. As he read, his face darkened, his features hardening with every word.
"What is it?" Mika asked, concern creasing his brow.
"The fourth kingdom," Dylan said, his voice thick with tension. "They've taken two stations at the Boreas border. If we don't act quickly, they'll invade further." He folded the letter sharply, his gaze moving toward the path Lyra had taken. "I can't leave her like this."
"You have no choice," Mika said, stepping forward. "If Boreas falls, it will not only hurt your kingdom, but hers too. The north is critical for both Helios and Anemoi."
Dylan's grip tightened on the letter, his frustration bubbling over. "I know," he snapped, but his voice softened immediately. "But she just lost her father. How can I abandon her now?"
"Perhaps she will not see it as abandonment," Mika said quietly.
Under the shelter of an ancient oak, Lyra leaned against the trunk, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The distant murmur of the marketplace barely touched her, her mind lost in memories of her father. The crunch of footsteps on gravel caught her attention, and she straightened as Dylan approached, his face torn between resolve and uncertainty.
"I heard," he said, his voice a low whisper.
Lyra met his gaze, her composure wavering. "I'll return to Anemoi," she said, her voice tight with emotion.
"And I to Boreas," Dylan replied, his words unexpected.
"What?" Lyra asked, her voice cracking.
"The fourth kingdom has attacked," Dylan explained, stepping closer. "They've seized two of my border stations. I have to go."
Lyra opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself, the grief in her chest giving way to understanding. She exhaled shakily, nodding. "Then go."
"Lyra..." Dylan hesitated, his usual confidence slipping. "I would stay if I could. You know that, don't you?"
"I do," she whispered, her eyes meeting his. For a brief moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid words. "Come back to me," she added softly.
"You have my word," Dylan said, his voice steady, though filled with resolve.
The Return to Anemoi
The grand hall pulsed with tension, its high, arched ceilings casting long shadows across the polished marble floors. Nobles, courtiers, and advisors milled about, their whispered conversations a low hum, swirling like an undercurrent of unease. The rich tapestries hanging from the walls, embroidered in gold and crimson, seemed almost out of place against the heavy atmosphere. At the head of the chamber stood Lyra, her figure a stark contrast in black mourning attire. Her dress, a deep onyx velvet, clung to her slender frame, while her cloak, dark and sweeping, flowed like a shadow around her. The delicate silver crown resting atop her head gleamed faintly, its beauty at odds with the storm brewing within her. Her posture was regal, but her eyes, burning with intensity, silenced the murmurs as she raised her hand.
"All of you," Lyra began, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade, sharp and commanding, "are here because of the trust placed in you to serve this kingdom. That trust has been broken."
A ripple of surprise and discomfort spread through the assembly. Medea, standing near the back, appeared untouched by the tension, her delicate features framed by carefully coiled dark hair. Her hand, adorned with a silken glove, gently held a handkerchief to her mouth, her expression a flawless mask of sympathy. Meanwhile, Nabal, with his broad shoulders and sharp, angular face, shifted uncomfortably in his seat near the front, his usual confidence rattled.
"My father," Lyra continued, her voice unwavering, "was said to have died of natural causes. But I find it difficult to believe that a man who lived with the strength of an ox could simply falter in his sleep. His death warrants answers, and I intend to get them."
The hall erupted into shocked murmurs. A portly count stepped forward, his pale, round face flushing with discomfort. His small, beady eyes darted nervously as he opened his mouth. "Your Highness, surely this is unnecessary. His Majesty had been unwell for months. Everyone in the court was aware of his condition—"
Lyra's eyes locked onto him, her glare freezing him in place. "Yes, Count Alaric, everyone in the court was aware. But what they failed to mention was the strange behavior of those closest to him. The unexplained treatments. The sudden worsening of his condition."
She turned, her gaze briefly meeting Medea's. The older woman's smooth features seemed to momentarily tighten, but she said nothing. Lyra's eyes swept across the room, her voice steady and unyielding. "The people deserve the truth. I deserve the truth."
A younger noble, his face pale and his hands nervously twisting his cuffs, spoke up from the side. "But Your Highness, would this not tarnish the king's legacy? To investigate his death so openly—"
"Tarnish his legacy?" Lyra snapped, her voice rising, as if she could physically cut through the air. "What tarnishes his legacy is the possibility of foul play being ignored. What tarnishes it is a court too afraid or complicit to seek justice for the crown."
The room fell silent, the weight of her words pressing on everyone. Lyra stood like a pillar of fury, her eyes blazing with resolve.
"I am placing the palace under a full lockdown," Lyra announced, her voice unwavering, regaining its cold steadiness. "No one leaves or enters without my permission. I will personally oversee this investigation, and I expect every one of you to cooperate fully. Those who obstruct the process will be dealt with as traitors to the crown."
Medea's voice finally broke through the tension, soft and trembling. "My dear Lyra, surely this isn't necessary. We are all family here. No one would dare—"
"Enough," Lyra interrupted, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Family is not immune to suspicion, Aunt Medea. Nor should it be."
The older woman paled, her lips pressing together tightly as she bowed her head, quickly recovering her composure. "Of course. I only wish to ease your burden."
"I suggest you focus on easing your own conscience," Lyra replied sharply, her tone like a blade slicing through the heavy air.
Nabal cleared his throat, his deep voice cutting through the silence, drawing her attention. "And what do you hope to achieve with this… open declaration?" he asked, his voice calm, though a faint hint of unease lingered.
Lyra's lips curled into a humorless smile, the fire in her eyes unyielding. "The truth, Uncle. And once I find it, rest assured that justice will be swift and unforgiving."
The hall fell into an oppressive silence as Lyra turned sharply, her dark gown trailing behind her like a shadow, a stark contrast to the opulent surroundings. Before exiting, she paused, her voice ringing out like a final command.
"Summon the palace guards and the royal investigators. Everyone in this court is to be questioned, regardless of rank or title. Let the investigation begin."
As Lyra strode from the hall, Mika fell into step beside her, his tall frame casting a shadow over her smaller figure. "That was a bold move, Your Highness," he remarked quietly, his voice laced with admiration.
"Boldness is all I have left," Lyra replied, her tone clipped, her gaze fixed ahead. "They need to see I will not waver."
"They fear you now," Mika added, his voice filled with quiet pride.
"Good," Lyra said, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "They should."
The Confrontation
Lyra stood in her father's private study, the dim candlelight casting long shadows across the vast, luxurious room. The scent of old leather-bound books and aged wood filled the air. She held the crumpled letter in her trembling hands which was handed to her as the letter her father wanted her to have after he died, its weight heavy in her chest. The words on the parchment cut like a blade through her heart. "Let it go…"
The letter, though short, was advising her to let things go as a family is above all. What came as a surprise was the fact that her father admitted in the letter to being aware of everything that was going on, yet he also believed his brother was the only one he could trust and that she, Lyra, should also trust him as he is family.
Her lips twisted into a sardonic smile, her sharp features highlighted by the flickering candlelight. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders in stark contrast to her dark mourning attire. Lyra crumpled the parchment, her voice breaking the silence, a mixture of disbelief and rage. "You trusted him? After everything?" Her voice rose, echoing against the high ceilings, filled with an unsettling intensity.
She threw the letter onto the grand oak desk and slammed her hands against its polished surface. "No," she whispered, her tone gaining strength. "If you didn't care enough to fight for yourself, then I won't waste my time fighting for you. But I will never stop fighting for Mother. Never."
The next day, the grand hall buzzed with whispers as Lyra made her way through the room. Her mourning attire—deep black with silver accents—stood out against the warm, festive ambiance of the court. The nobles and courtiers seemed to part for her as she passed, their gazes lingering with judgment and curiosity. Despite the smiles they wore, Lyra could feel the weight of their scrutiny, the tension that coiled like a tightening noose around her.
Across the room, Medea, her aunt, stood draped in deep purple, her carefully styled silver hair cascading elegantly down her back. She was dabbing at her eyes with a delicate lace handkerchief, a picture of grief. "My poor brother-in-law," Medea sighed, her voice laced with theatrical sadness. "He was such a noble soul, sacrificing everything for this kingdom."
Lyra's grip on her dress tightened, but her expression remained impassive, her gaze cold and calculating. She moved toward her aunt, her steps purposeful and poised, yet there was an underlying menace in her silence. Stopping behind Medea, Lyra spoke in a voice as smooth as silk. "Aunt Medea," she whispered so only Medea could hear her words laced with venom, "what a moving performance."
Medea stiffened at the sound of her name, quickly turning with a feigned smile. "Ah, my dear Lyra. You've always been so strong," she replied, her voice syrupy sweet.
Leaning in closer, Lyra lowered her voice, just loud enough for Medea to hear. "You can fool them with your tears, but I see you clearly. And when I'm finished with you, you'll beg for death… but I will make sure it never comes."
Medea's breath caught in her throat, her porcelain face suddenly ashen.
Lyra stepped back, the politeness of her smile belying the fury burning in her eyes, before turning her attention to the next noble, leaving Medea to grapple with her newfound fear.
The next morning, the sun's rays filtered through the tall, arched windows of the palace gates, bathing the courtyard in a golden glow. Lyra stood by the entrance, her back straight, her expression unreadable as she waited for Queen Luna's arrival. The older woman descended from her carriage with a grace that spoke of decades of royal dignity, her grey hair flowing around her shoulders like a shimmering halo. She was regal in a way that no one else could rival, yet her eyes softened when they met Lyra's.
"My darling girl," Luna greeted, enveloping Lyra in a warm, tight embrace. Despite the hard edge that Lyra had developed, the touch of family warmth made her falter for a moment.
Lyra hesitated, then returned the embrace, her voice almost cracking. "It's so good to see you, your Highness."
Luna pulled back, holding Lyra's face gently in her hands, her warm eyes full of concern. "You've grown so much. But this burden… it's too heavy for someone so young."
Lyra straightened, masking her vulnerability with a steely resolve. "It's my duty. I have no choice."
Luna's gaze softened even more, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Duty may demand much of us, but it doesn't mean you have to carry it alone. Let me be here for you, as your mother would have been."
For the first time in days, Lyra felt a crack in her defenses. "Thank you," she said quietly, the weight of everything threatening to break her composure.
A week later, Lyra stood in the grand court chamber, the eyes of the entire assembly fixed upon her. The high priest rose from his seat, his elaborate robes rustling as he addressed the gathered nobles. "Your Highness, while we recognize your capability, tradition must be upheld. The crown will pass to you when you turn 22, as is customary. Until then, Lord Nabal will serve as regent."
Lyra's jaw tightened, but she kept her voice even. "Of course," she said, her tone controlled. "Tradition must be honored. I would never seek to undermine our sacred customs."
The court murmured in approval, but as Lyra turned to leave, her lips curled into a faint but dangerous smile. Let him enjoy this fleeting dream. It won't last.
The palace descended into a chaos of locked doors and hushed conversations. Guards patrolled every corridor, and the whispers of nobles reached a fever pitch. Lyra had declared a full investigation into her father's suspicious death, and no one was immune from scrutiny.
In a private meeting with Nabal, Lyra leaned forward in her chair, her piercing gaze never leaving her uncle's uneasy face. "It must be such a heavy burden for you, Uncle, taking on Father's responsibilities."
Nabal chuckled nervously, avoiding her eyes. "Anything for the family, my dear."
Lyra tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "Of course. Family is everything. But accidents… they do happen, don't they?"
Nabal's hand trembled as he reached for his wine. "Accidents?"
Lyra's eyes glinted with cold amusement. "Yes. Like that unfortunate accident of Father's death. What a tragedy that Father trusted someone so careless."
Nabal's face turned an unnatural shade of pale, but Lyra was already standing, ready to leave. "I'll leave you to your work, Uncle. After all, it's a position you've always dreamed of," she said sweetly, her voice dripping with mockery.
Late one evening, Lyra found Medea in the gardens, speaking quietly with her cousin, Lady Selene who originally was a spy working for Lyra. When Lyra entered, the conversation abruptly ceased, and Medea quickly dismissed her cousin, flashing a bright, forced smile.
"Out for a stroll, my dear?" Medea asked, her voice laced with false sweetness.
Lyra stepped closer, her gaze unyielding as her voice dropped to a whisper. "You must be so relieved, Aunt Medea, to see everything falling into place so neatly."
"I don't know what you mean," Medea replied, her voice steady, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of panic.
Lyra leaned in closer, her breath cold against Medea's ear. "You know very well what I mean, my dear Aunt."
Medea's mask cracked, her expression shifting from feigned composure to sheer panic. "You have no proof."
Lyra in return shrugged with a smirk, turning on her heel and walking away.