The next two days passed in a whirlwind of tension, as Lyra found herself constantly shadowed by security. Even Queen Luna, residing as a guest in the palace, had insisted on sending her guards to protect Lyra, a testament to her overprotective nature. Every moment was accounted for—council meetings rife with heated arguments, overseeing investigations, and attempting to wrest authority back from Nabal. The ever-annoying Wily seemed to materialize at the worst moments, interrupting her with his relentless schemes to grasp power.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on her, seeping into her bones. The brief solace she found was in her stolen tea breaks with Queen Luna and Astrid, moments of warmth in a sea of cold responsibilities. But it wasn't enough. She had barely slept in days, the strain of her father's death and the aftermath wearing her thin.
That morning, with no sleep to claim, Lyra rose from her desk, where her aunt Katherine and Delilah were huddled together, fast asleep under the blanket she'd draped over them. As she walked through the quiet corridors, the faint light of dawn began to seep through the palace windows. Passing by Solon's desk, she noticed him slumped in his chair, asleep. A small, tired smile crossed her lips. She thought of waking him, but seeing the dark circles beneath his eyes, she let him rest.
The palace gardens were silent, the world still on the cusp of waking. Lyra stepped into the garden near her private library, the stone path cool beneath her feet. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew-laden roses and freshly turned earth. Above, the sky was painted in strokes of pink and gold, a serene contrast to the chaos in her mind.
Her shawl, delicate and embroidered with silver thread, brushed against her as she made her way to the rose trellis. The memory of the last time she had stood there lingered in her thoughts.
And then, the sound of footsteps disrupted the stillness.
Turning slowly, Lyra's breath caught as Dylan emerged from the archway. The soft morning light bathed him, accentuating the tired set of his shoulders. His white shirt was rumpled, his dark riding trousers dusted with the evidence of a long journey. Though his expression was composed, Lyra's sharp eyes immediately noticed the stiffness in his movements and the way his left shoulder hung slightly lower than the other.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken words.
"Dylan," Lyra finally breathed, her voice barely louder than the rustle of the leaves.
Dylan took a step forward, his lips parting as if to speak, but Lyra didn't wait. Closing the distance, she rested her head against his chest.
"I knew you'd be here," Dylan murmured, his voice soft, a stark contrast to his usual sharp tone.
Lyra's voice was muffled against his shirt. "Just… let me stay like this for a few moments."
Dylan stiffened for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before his hand came up, tentative at first, to rest on her hair. "I'm sorry I was late," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The garden seemed to hold its breath. Lyra closed her eyes, letting the steady rhythm of Dylan's heartbeat ground her. The weight of her responsibilities, her grief, and her exhaustion felt momentarily distant, like a storm held at bay.
When Lyra finally opened her eyes, she tilted her head back to look at Dylan. His breath hitched, realizing how close their faces were. Her gaze flickered to the edge of a bandage peeking from beneath the collar of his shirt.
"What happened to your shoulder?" she asked, her voice steady despite the concern in her eyes.
Dylan hesitated, his usual composure faltering. "How did you—"
"I can see the bandages," she interrupted, her sharp tone softened by the faintest trace of worry.
Dylan let out a soft laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "I'd forgotten how observant you are."
Lyra's expression softened, but she quickly stepped back, realizing the closeness between them. "Sorry," she muttered, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
But before she could retreat fully, Dylan reached out and gently caught her wrist. His teasing smile returned, though the faint redness in his ears betrayed his flustered state. "Seems like you really missed me."
Lyra blinked, startled by his boldness, before looking down. "I did."
Her voice, quiet and raw, held an emotion that made Dylan pause. She continued, her words hesitant but honest, "These past few days have been hell. I— I needed to see you."
Dylan's teasing demeanor melted, replaced by something softer. He raised his hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you needed me."
Across the garden, Rosa stood hidden behind a marble column, her wide eyes fixed on the pair. Her hand, clutching a folded message, trembled slightly. The tenderness between Lyra and Dylan was unlike anything she had seen before.
Without making a sound, Rosa turned and hurried back into the palace, her heart racing.
By the time she reached Medea's chambers, the words tumbled out of her in a rush. Medea listened, her lips curling into a cruel smile.
"A secret affair with the prince of Helios?" Medea said, her tone dripping with mockery. She leaned back in her chair, her sharp nails tapping against the polished armrest. "How utterly scandalous."
Medea's cousin, Lady Selene, who was also present frowned, folding her arms. "Do you understand the implications? With Helios, of all kingdoms? After years of tension between us? This could ruin her."
Lady Selene was younger than Medea, she grew up being bullied by her. However, since Medea was a Duchess married to Duke Nabal, Selene had no choice but to let everything that happened to her take place without fighting back. However, she recently gained the courage to talk to her with assertiveness after she got engaged to Duke Wren. Secretly, Selene hated Medea and wanted nothing to do with her but Duke Wren had requested Selene to keep in contact with Medea to provide information, which he could then share with Crown Princess Lyra.
Medea's smile widened. "Precisely. And it's exactly the weapon we need."
She snapped her fingers at Rosa. "Bring me the letters from the vault. Now."
Rosa hesitated, her lips parting to protest.
"Do not make me repeat myself," Medea said, her voice like ice.
A week later, the scandal erupted like a storm at sea, its waves crashing against the fragile walls of the palace. A letter, allegedly penned by Lyra at the tender age of 14, found its way into the hands of a prominent publishing house. Once tucked safely away in private archives, its words now fueled the fire of public scrutiny and whispered conspiracies.
In the letter, Lyra had poured her teenage heart out, lamenting her loneliness and the oppressive weight of palace life.
"Everything has changed," it read.
"I wish I could run away. I feel so alone here."
The court's reaction was swift and divisive.
Medea's allies seized the moment like vultures circling a wounded animal.
"How can a future queen despise her royal life?" they sneered.
"Such petulance reveals an unfit and spoiled child."
The public, however, was not so easily swayed. Some saw the letter as the anguished cry of a grieving daughter, mourning her mother while suffocating in isolation.
"She was just a child," they murmured sympathetically.
"A lonely girl locked away in a gilded cage."
Lyra, on the other hand, was livid. When reporters swarmed, desperate for a comment, she locked her doors and refused to grant them the satisfaction. Her sanctuary had been violated in the cruelest of ways, and she would not dignify it with a response.
"I don't care what they think," she fumed to Lord Edwin, pacing the length of her chamber like a caged lioness. "What enrages me is that someone dared to expose something so private."
Dylan, equally furious, clenched his fists as he spoke. "This is an outrage! Your childhood musings, twisted into a weapon? We have to find the rest of the letters before Medea does."
Before Lyra and Dylan could act, another letter emerged. This one was far more damning.
In it, Lyra had written:
"I hate my father. I feel hurt that Dylan isn't replying to me. Everything feels like it's falling apart."
The fallout was immediate. Sympathy for Lyra gave way to whispers of blame against Dylan.
"Why didn't he respond to her?" the people asked.
"She was alone, vulnerable, and he abandoned her. Does he even care?"
The media latched onto this narrative, painting Dylan as indifferent to Lyra's pain. Speculations mounted, splintering the court into factions.
In her opulent chambers, Medea basked in the chaos she had sown. Her cousin, Selene—ever the strategist—leaned forward, her sharp eyes gleaming.
"This is more than just discrediting her affair with Dylan," Selene said coolly. "This is about her capacity to rule. A queen who can't handle pressure is no queen at all."
Medea's lips curled into a triumphant smile.
"Exactly. With each letter, she unravels. And when she falls, I'll be there to step into the throne she clings to so desperately."
But triumph often comes with a price. As Medea's machinations came to light, her support within the court began to erode. Nobles whispered doubts about her integrity and intentions and one by one, they distanced themselves from her and her faction.
"I can't stand by and let them ruin me," Lyra said firmly, her voice steady with determination as she met Dylan in the shadowed quiet of the library.
Dylan nodded, his expression grim. "Then we fight back. We'll find the remaining letters and expose Medea for the viper she is."
"She's pushed too far," Lyra said, her anger smoldering into resolve. "I won't rest until the truth comes out. She won't get away with this."
But as they unearthed Medea's intricate web of lies, they realized how deep her roots of manipulation had grown. Medea had played her hand well, feeding the public's doubts and steering them toward Lyra's downfall—all while shrouding herself in the guise of innocence.
After days of painstaking effort, Lyra and her team finally unearthed the last batch of letters hidden deep within the vault. These were the ones untouched by public eyes, brimming with secrets that could shift the court's narrative. The team assembled in Lyra's study, the weight of their discovery hanging heavily in the air. The soft glow of candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, flickering like the uncertainties in their minds.The letters were spread out on the polished mahogany table, their brittle edges hinting at the passage of time. Lyra's advisors leaned in with anticipation, their expressions a mix of intrigue and caution.
One advisor, Viscount Vile, a sharp-witted noblewoman known for his keen understanding of court politics, spoke first. His piercing gaze swept across the room. "Your Highness, the public is ravenous for gossip. These rumors have already rooted themselves deeply. We should consider releasing these letters—one by one, daily. It would offer insight into your life and help you seize control of the narrative. It might also bolster Prince Dylan's position in the future."
Lyra stiffened at the mention of Dylan. Her voice, tinged with confusion and concern, broke the silence. "What future?"
Dylan, seated beside her, mirrored her surprise. "What are you talking about? Who's getting married?"
Vile blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Well, Your Highness, it's no secret that you and Prince Dylan share a unique bond. Your attentiveness toward one another hasn't gone unnoticed. The court believes you two are already—"
The room fell into a stunned silence. Glances were exchanged, their discomfort palpable. It seemed the entire court had made assumptions about the nature of Lyra and Dylan's relationship.
Clearing his throat awkwardly, Dylan finally spoke. "Well, that's not... exactly what's going on." He hesitated, then exhaled deeply, his voice steady but laced with vulnerability. "I'm the one who's been pinning after her."
His words hung in the air, thick with emotion. The room stilled. Advisors turned crimson with embarrassment, yet Dylan's composure remained unshaken.
Lyra blinked, her thoughts scrambling to make sense of the unexpected confession. Her heartbeat quickened, but her face betrayed none of the turmoil within. She spoke with careful precision. "If you're alright with it," she began, her voice measured, "I'd like to use your letters. They'll help with the investigation and shed light on this situation."
Though visibly flustered, Dylan nodded with a faint smile. "Sure. Go ahead. It's a bit embarrassing, but if it helps you..."
As the team sifted through the letters, one stood out. In it, Dylan had written that he missed Lyra, longing to be by her side. The simplicity and sincerity of his words made her pause. Her fingers lingered on the delicate parchment as a soft blush crept across her cheeks. Resolving herself, she nodded and handed it to the advisors.
When the others finally left, Lyra remained seated in her study, the letters still in her grasp. The room was quiet now, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Dylan lingered at the door, his silhouette framed by the golden light.As he turned to leave, Lyra's fingers instinctively reached for the edge of his sleeve—a familiar habit when uncertainty gripped her.
"Are you really okay with this?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dylan paused and turned to face her. His smile was warm, his voice low and steady. "You can use me, my letters, anything you want, Lyra. I'm all yours."
The weight of his words struck her, sending a rush of warmth to her cheeks. She quickly looked away, her laughter awkward and nervous. "What's with you today?"
He leaned closer, his tone playful yet sincere. "Well, since I'm leaving the day after tomorrow, I figured I should take my chances while I can. Who knows when I'll get another opportunity?"
Her blush deepened, and she shook her head, trying to mask her flustered state. "You really know how to make the other feel flustered..."
The next evening, the palace hosted a modest dinner. In deference to the mourning period, the hall was quiet, devoid of music and merriment. Lyra sat at the head of the long, elegantly set table, with her uncle, Nabal, directly opposite her. Beside her, Dylan's presence was a steadying force amidst the sea of watchful gazes.Despite the somber atmosphere, whispers rippled through the room as nobles eyed the pair. When Lyra asked Dylan to pass the salt, their simple exchange seemed to ignite the onlookers' imaginations.
Dylan leaned toward her, his voice barely audible. "Thanks to the letters, they all think we're having an affair now."
Lyra's face burned with embarrassment. She offered him a faint smile. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this. It isn't fair to you."
Dylan shrugged, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "It's fine. We can always turn this rumor into a reality."
Her eyes widened at his boldness, and despite herself, a soft chuckle escaped her lips, louder than intended. The sound carried through the room, drawing even more attention.
"Oh my," a woman's voice chimed from the far end of the table. "It seems it's true."
The room hushed immediately. Nobles exchanged knowing glances as Lyra's cheeks flamed. Clearing her throat, she addressed the room with practiced composure. "You should focus on your dinner before it gets cold," she said, effectively ending the speculation.
Later that evening, Lyra sought out Queen Luna, who had silently observed the unfolding drama. The queen stood by the window of her chambers, the moonlight casting a serene glow over her poised figure."I'm sorry," Lyra began, her voice heavy with regret. "I never meant for Dylan to get caught up in these rumors."
Queen Luna turned to her with a gentle smile, her eyes wise and understanding. "Do whatever makes you happy, Lyra. Gossip is inevitable in court, but at the end of the day, it's your life and your choices that matter. Just ensure that you're both content with them."
The queen's words lifted a weight from Lyra's shoulders. For the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of clarity amidst the chaos. Smiling softly, she nodded her gratitude. The moonlight framed them both, a silent witness to the quiet resolve in Lyra's heart.