A few days after the court meeting, Lyra paused outside the sitting room, her steps slowing as sharp voices pierced through the heavy oak door. Her aunt Medea's tone, as biting as winter frost, cut through the air.
"…pretending she's already queen," Medea scoffed, her voice dripping with venom. "What a joke. A girl playing at power, trying to live up to a legacy she can never match."
Lyra froze, her breath hitching.
"She's so full of herself," Calista chimed in, disdain thick in her voice. "Ordering everyone around as if she's above us all. Does she think anyone actually respects her?"
Lyra's hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging crescents into her palms. Each word felt like a dagger, sharp and deliberate.
"And her mother?" Medea sneered. "A sickly, weak-willed woman who didn't deserve the crown. And Lyra's father? A puppet! The only real strength in this family has always been mine."
Calista's cruel laughter grated on Lyra's ears. "And her sister abandoned her, didn't she? If her own family can't stand her, why should anyone else?"
Rage roared in Lyra's chest, hot and untamed. She didn't hesitate.
She stepped into the room, her voice slicing through the air like thunder. "Enough."
The laughter ceased abruptly. All eyes turned to her, the color draining from Calista's face. Medea's smug expression faltered for the briefest moment before she straightened, her lips curving into a saccharine smile.
"Lyra," Medea cooed, her voice laced with mock sweetness. "What a surprise. I didn't realize you were listening."
"Clearly," Lyra replied, her tone glacial. Her piercing gaze swept over Medea and her children, freezing them in place. "Perhaps you should remember where you are before speaking so freely."
Calista crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. "We're only speaking the truth."
Medea's chin lifted in defiance, her eyes glinting with malice. "And truth is no crime, is it? Your mother was weak. Your father was a fool. That's why this kingdom fell into chaos—because neither of them could lead."
Lyra's fists trembled, but her voice was steady as steel. "You dare insult my parents, the king and queen of this land, while you sit here under the roof they built? If they were so weak, why do you cling to their power, their titles?"
Medea stepped closer, her smirk deepening. "Because they couldn't handle it. But I could. I held this family together when your father failed. I raised you and your sister when your mother—"
"You didn't raise us," Lyra interrupted, her voice sharp as a blade. "You poisoned this family with your lies and schemes. And now, when I am trying to restore what my parents built, you stand here mocking them? Mocking me?"
The room's atmosphere crackled with tension, but Medea's expression darkened, a storm gathering behind her eyes. "Careful, Lyra. You may be crown princess, but you are still a child. Do not presume to lecture me."
Lyra stepped forward, her words ice cold. "I am the heir to this throne. And I will not tolerate your arrogance any longer."
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by Medea's sharp hiss.
"How dare you!" Medea spat, her hand lashing out.
The slap echoed like a gunshot in the room. Gasps erupted from the onlookers. Lyra staggered slightly but didn't flinch. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her head, her piercing gaze locking onto Medea.
"You've forgotten your place, Aunt Medea," she said, her tone dangerously calm.
Lyra moved with lightning precision, her hand striking Medea with such force that the older woman stumbled back, clutching her cheek in shock.
"This is my palace," Lyra declared, her voice rising with an authority that filled the room. "I am the crown princess, and you will treat me with the respect I command—or you will face the consequences."
Calista surged forward, her face flushed with outrage. "How dare you strike my mother—"
"Silence," Lyra snapped, her voice cutting like a whip. The weight of her authority pressed down on the room, silencing even the whispers. "If you or your brothers dare to speak, it will be to explain why you mock the royal family under my roof."
Medea recovered quickly, her pride swelling. "You think you can scare me? I have more influence in this court than you ever will. You wouldn't dare do anything to me."
Lyra's gaze turned to the guards stationed at the door. "Take her—and her children—to the dungeons. Effective immediately."
The guards hesitated, their uncertainty evident. Medea's laugh rang out, sharp and mocking. "See? Even they know you lack the power to act against me."
"Do it," Lyra commanded, her voice as sharp as a blade.
The guards moved reluctantly, but before they could seize Medea, the door burst open.
Nabal strode in, his towering presence and deep voice filling the room. "What is the meaning of this?"
Lyra turned to face him, her gaze unwavering. "I am placing Lady Medea and her children under arrest for treason and slander against the royal family. They are a threat to the crown."
Nabal raised a hand, halting the guards. "Lyra, this is a dangerous move. You cannot throw your family into the dungeons without substantial proof."
"She struck me," Lyra countered sharply, her hand brushing her still-burning cheek. "And she openly disrespected the king and queen, undermining my authority."
"And yet," Nabal replied, his tone measured, "you are not yet queen. The court will see this as an overreach of your power. You must tread carefully."
Lyra's jaw tightened, her voice taut with frustration. "So what do you suggest, Uncle? That I let her walk free?"
"Not free," Nabal said, his tone calm yet firm. "Place her and her children under house arrest during the investigation. That way, no one can accuse you of acting rashly."
Lyra considered his words before turning to the guards. "Confine them to their quarters. Double the guard. No visitors, no letters. Nothing gets in or out."
As Medea was escorted away, her glare burned into Lyra. "You'll regret this," she hissed.
Lyra stepped closer, her voice low and venomous. "The only regret I have is not acting sooner. Enjoy your confinement, Aunt Medea. It's only the beginning."
The palace had always been a cauldron of tension, but in recent weeks, the simmering unease had boiled over. The whispered rumors of treachery had grown teeth, transforming into sharp-edged threats and sinister shadows—culminating in attempts on Lyra's life.
It happened late one evening as Lyra strolled through the east gardens, seeking a moment of peace amid the labyrinth of court politics. The air was fragrant with the faint, heady scent of jasmine, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Moonlight spilled over the stone paths, painting them in hues of silver and shadow.
Pausing near a cluster of blooming roses, Lyra reached out, her fingers brushing against velvety petals. The stillness of the night was broken by the faintest rustle in the hedges. It might have gone unnoticed by someone else, but Lyra's years of vigilance had sharpened her instincts.
She spun just as an arrow hissed through the air. It grazed her shoulder, leaving a fiery sting before embedding itself with a sharp thunk in the trunk of a nearby tree.
"Guards!" she shouted, her voice slicing through the silence as she darted behind a marble fountain for cover.
The rustling intensified, and a shadow emerged from the foliage. The figure moved with predatory grace, a dagger gleaming wickedly in its hand, its blade catching the pale moonlight. Lyra's breath quickened as she reached for the small blade hidden in her sleeve.
Before the assailant could close the distance, another shadow entered the fray—this one familiar and steady. Mika's figure seemed to materialize from the darkness, his blade flashing with deadly precision.
The clash was swift and brutal. The sounds of grunts and steel meeting steel filled the air before the would-be assassin crumpled to the ground. Mika wiped his blade on the grass and turned to Lyra, his dark eyes scanning her for injuries.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice tight with concern. "Are you hurt?"
"It's nothing," Lyra replied, her hand pressing against the shallow wound as blood seeped through her sleeve. Her gaze flicked to the unconscious attacker. "Keep them alive. I need to know who sent them."
Two days later, the threat found her again, this time in the opulent setting of the royal dining hall. The morning sunlight streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the polished marble floor. Servants moved quietly along the walls, their steps barely audible over the soft clink of silverware.
Lyra, seated at the head of the long table, reached for her goblet of wine without thinking. Before it could touch her lips, Delilah's hand shot out, intercepting it with a calm but unyielding grip.
"Your Highness," she murmured, her voice low yet commanding. "Allow me."
Lyra watched as he retrieved a small vial from her pocket, pouring a few drops of the wine into it. Her stomach tightened as the liquid darkened, turning an inky black.
"Poison," Delilah said grimly, holding the vial up to the light.
Lyra's grip on the table tightened, her knuckles whitening. Her eyes darted to the servants stationed around the room, their faces carefully neutral—or perhaps too neutral.
"Find out who handled my goblet," she said, her voice icy. "Now."
The kitchen staff was rounded up within minutes, their wide eyes betraying their fear. The interrogations that followed were intense, but no one admitted to the crime. The culprit remained unknown, though the message was clear: someone wanted her dead.
That evening, Lyra sat in her private study, its walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes and ornate carvings. The faint glow of candlelight flickered against the dark wood, casting long shadows across the room. Rosa, a young maid with a quiet demeanor but sharp instincts, entered hesitantly, her hands clutching the edges of her apron. She was the loyal maid of Lady Medea, but today she was called to meet her master's sole enemy, the Crown Princess Lyra.
"You called for me, Your Highness?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly as she curtsied.
"Yes." Lyra's gaze, piercing and unyielding, locked onto Rosa. "I need you to deliver a message to Lady Medea."
Rosa's eyes widened, her fingers twisting nervously. "Of course, Your Highness."
Lyra leaned forward, her tone dropping to a low, measured whisper. "Tell her this: 'Stay calm and still. Such reckless acts will only lead to your downfall. You are clever, but these attempts are not. If they continue, you'll be the first name on everyone's lips. And once I have proof, no amount of power will save you.'"
Rosa's throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. "It will be done, Your Highness."
The next morning, Lyra summoned her uncle Nabal to her chambers. The room, adorned with silk tapestries and a roaring fireplace, exuded both warmth and authority. Nabal entered with his usual air of nonchalance, but the tension in the room made his steps falter.
"You wanted to see me, Lyra?" he asked, his tone light but guarded.
Lyra gestured for him to sit, her movements precise and deliberate. "Uncle, I trust you've heard about the attempts on my life."
Nabal's expression darkened, though his smile remained firmly in place. "I have. A terrible situation, to be sure."
"Terrible indeed," Lyra replied, her gaze like a dagger's edge. "What I find curious is the timing. These attacks began after I initiated the investigation. It's almost as if someone is growing desperate."
Nabal's laugh was forced, his fingers tapping against the armrest of the chair. "Surely you don't think I'm involved."
"Of course not," she said smoothly, her tone as sharp as her gaze. "But I thought you should know—if these attempts persist, the court will demand a scapegoat. And the first person they'll suspect is Aunt Medea."
His composure cracked, his hands tightening into fists. "Medea? She would never—"
"Wouldn't she? I recently sent her to confinement. It's no surprise that she would want to take revenge." Lyra's voice, calm but cutting, sliced through his protest. "The rumors are already spreading, Uncle. And you know how quickly the court turns on those caught in scandal."
Nabal leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Lyra whispered, her tone almost gentle, "that if Aunt Medea has any sense, she'll end this foolishness before it destroys her. And if she doesn't, you should consider how far you're willing to protect her."
The open investigation had ignited a wildfire. The kingdom's newspapers churned out headlines daily, each more sensational than the last.
"Medea's Dark Secrets: The Hidden Truth Behind the Royal Scandal!"
"Crown Princess Targeted—Who Benefits from Her Fall?"
"Lady Medea: Hero or Villain?"
The nobility, ever eager to avoid scandal, began severing ties with Medea. Invitations to balls and dinners dried up, and her family's once-unshakable alliances crumbled.
That night, Lyra sat by the window of her chambers, her silhouette framed by the glow of the city lights below. The distant hum of life outside was a stark contrast to the heavy silence within. Solon stood nearby, his posture stiff, his eyes scanning the room as though danger might emerge from the shadows.
"The tide is turning," he said quietly.
Lyra nodded, her gaze distant. "Yes. But tides are fickle. We need solid proof—not just whispers and rumors. Something irrefutable."
"We'll find it," Solon said with quiet conviction.
Lyra's jaw tightened. "We must. This isn't just about me—it's about the future of this kingdom. And avenging my mother's death."
She turned away from the window, her voice hard with resolve. "I won't stop until every last snake is exposed."