The grand halls of the Anemoi palace had grown colder, more ominous, with whispers of unrest weaving through its walls. Lyra, though outwardly calm and dutiful, played a silent and chilling game behind the scenes. For she had uncovered a truth so dark it could shatter the very fabric of the royal family.
She had learned that Nabal, her uncle and the king's trusted regent, had suffocated the late king—her father—with a pillow. He had orchestrated the murder so seamlessly that no one suspected foul play. But Lyra, patient and calculating, had pieced together the truth. Now, she intended to make him pay. Not with an official trial—not yet—but by unraveling his sanity.
The first incident occurred one morning when Nabal entered his private carriage. The moment he stepped inside, he froze. Stacks of syringes—the very ones he had used to drug the late king—were neatly arranged on the seat opposite him.
His heart raced, and his breath hitched. Trembling, he reached for one of the syringes, inspecting it. The clear liquid inside seemed to mock him.
"Impossible," he muttered under his breath. "I destroyed all of these years ago."
The carriage driver peeked in, concerned. "My lord, is something amiss?"
Nabal flinched, quickly hiding the syringes beneath his coat. "No. Nothing. Drive."
As the carriage lurched forward, the shadows in his mind deepened. Who could have known about the syringes? Why leave them here? His thoughts spiraled, the faint creak of the wheels sounding like whispers of accusation.
From a distant balcony, Lyra watched with a faint smirk. She hadn't needed to place the syringes herself; her loyal maid May had seen to it. The plan was simple yet brilliant: sow seeds of fear in Nabal's heart and watch them grow.
Her thoughts were interrupted as May approached, her expression calm but knowing. "It's done, Your Highness. The syringes were delivered as you requested."
Lyra nodded, her smile widening. "Good. Let him stew in his own guilt for a while."
May hesitated. "Do you think he suspects you?"
Lyra's gaze turned cold. "He may. But suspicion is not proof. And without proof, he is powerless."
Nabal's unease deepened with each passing day. The syringes were only the beginning. In his office, he found forged letters in his own handwriting: "I know what you did. You suffocated me, brother."
He burned the notes immediately, but the words lingered in his mind. One night, as he sat alone in his study, a faint knock on the door startled him. He called out, but no one answered.
When he opened the door, he found a pillow lying on the floor. A simple, unassuming pillow.
Nabal's hands shook as he picked it up, his mind screaming accusations. Turning to his steward, who stood nearby, he demanded, "Who left this here?"
The steward looked genuinely puzzled. "I'm not sure, my lord. Perhaps a servant misplaced it?"
Nabal growled, throwing the pillow across the room. "Keep a closer watch. Find out who's behind this."
The steward bowed, concern flickering in his eyes. "As you wish, my lord."
From her study, Lyra observed Nabal's unraveling with satisfaction. She felt no guilt—only a cold, burning resolve. Her father's death had haunted her, and now, knowing the truth, she couldn't simply expose it. Not yet.
S, her assistant, entered the room with a stack of documents. "Your Highness, the reports from the northern province are ready."
Lyra waved him over, skimming through the pages. "Excellent. Thank you, S."
He hesitated. "My lady, the rumors about Lord Nabal's behavior are spreading. He's been unusually erratic lately."
Lyra raised an eyebrow, feigning concern. "Is that so? Perhaps he's simply overworked."
S nodded but seemed unconvinced. "Should we intervene?"
"Not yet," Lyra said smoothly. "Let him sort himself out. I'm sure he'll recover soon enough."
The Cracks Deepen
One evening, Nabal confronted Medea in a fit of desperation.
"Do you feel it?" he asked, his voice low and frantic.
Medea frowned, crossing her arms. "Feel what, Nabal? And why are you acting like a madman?"
"The walls are closing in," he muttered. "They know. Someone knows what I did."
Medea sighed impatiently. "You're being ridiculous. No one knows anything. And even if they did, they can't prove it."
Nabal grabbed her shoulders, his grip almost bruising. "You don't understand. This isn't paranoia—this is real! The syringes, the letters… they're taunting me."
Medea shrugged him off. "Then find whoever's behind it and deal with them. You're embarrassing yourself."
Nabal's eyes darkened. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one being haunted by his own crime."
As the moon rose over the palace that night, Lyra sat by her window, staring out at the gardens. The wind carried the faint scent of roses, but her thoughts were far from tranquil.
Her aunt Katherine entered quietly, placing a cup of tea on the table beside her. "You're pushing him to the brink," Katherine said softly. "Be careful, Lyra."
Lyra looked up, her expression unreadable. "I know what I'm doing."
Katherine sighed, taking a seat across from her. "And if he snaps? If he does something reckless?"
Lyra's lips curled into a faint smile. "Then the game ends sooner than I expected."
Katherine shook her head, both impressed and wary of her niece's resolve. "Just don't lose yourself in this."
Lyra's gaze returned to the window, her voice barely above a whisper. "I already lost myself the day they killed my mother."
The palace brimmed with tension as whispers of unpaid debts and veiled accusations filled every corner. Despite Nabal's mounting paranoia, Medea's thoughts remained shackled to the weight of her own financial woes. The court's damning verdict had left her scrambling to repay stolen funds, and the monthly women's gathering offered little more than a reluctant reprieve.
Lady Elise's drawing room was a masterpiece of opulence. Cascading florals adorned the walls, and crystal chandeliers bathed the space in warm light. Women dressed in vibrant silks and delicate laces filled the room, their animated chatter a stark contrast to Medea's composed but weary demeanor.
Clad in a striking crimson gown with intricate gold embroidery, Medea maintained her air of arrogance, though the exhaustion etched into her features told another story. She sipped her tea in silence, her focus sharpening as a young woman in a soft lavender gown rose to address the gathering.
"I have something fascinating to share," the woman announced, her voice a delicate mix of sweetness and authority. "My brother has recently opened a loan business to aid those in desperate need."
The room hummed with intrigue, heads turning toward the speaker. Medea leaned forward, her brows knitting together in suspicion.
"One such client," the woman continued, her pause pregnant with suspense, "borrowed a sum of great magnitude. Around..." She lifted her hand to signal an amount that made Medea's breath hitch. It was dangerously close to the figure she owed.
"How scandalous!" a lady exclaimed, her fan snapping shut with dramatic flair.
"Indeed," another chimed in. "Was it for gambling debts?"
The room's murmurs swelled, judgment lacing every word. Medea's grip on her teacup tightened.
The woman in lavender raised her hand, silencing the crowd with practiced ease. "Let us not leap to conclusions. The individual in question is, in fact, quite wealthy. Perhaps it was a mere emergency."
"Then why not repay it immediately?" a sharp voice cut through the murmurs.
The speaker's demure smile widened. "They could always sell one of their unused properties. The land market is quite favorable, after all."
A spark of realization ignited in Medea's mind. Sell unused property… Could it work?
"Who is this person?" another woman demanded, her curiosity barely contained.
"I'm afraid confidentiality forbids me from revealing that," the lavender-clad woman replied with mock regret. "Client information is sacred, after all."
Medea's gaze lingered on the woman, suspicion gnawing at her composure. Yet, the idea had taken root.
Later that evening, Medea sat in the dim study she shared with Nabal. He lounged in a chair, nursing a goblet of wine, his expression drawn and weary.
"We must sell the old estate," Medea declared, breaking the silence.
Nabal frowned, his gaze narrowing. "What estate?"
"The duchy lands," she replied. "We haven't set foot there in years. It's nothing but a decaying relic."
"That land is a family legacy," Nabal argued, his voice heavy with reluctance. "Why sell it now?"
Medea leaned forward, her tone urgent. "Because it's dead weight. We need funds, and you are the king, are you not? Let us sell it, repay the debts, and rid ourselves of this burden."
Nabal sighed, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Fine. But we must first handle that… nuisance who's been threatening me. Once that's resolved, it won't matter."
Suppressing a victorious smile, Medea nodded. "Agreed."
The sale of the duchy lands proceeded swiftly. To Medea's dismay, the estate was purchased by Duke Wren as a wedding gift for his fiancée, Selene—Medea's cousin and a woman she had once tormented in their youth. The news struck like a blow, but Medea schooled her expression, concealing her fury.
Days later, at another gathering, Medea seized the opportunity to confront Selene. The younger woman, dressed in an elegant ivory gown accented by a string of pearls, radiated a serene confidence that only deepened Medea's resentment.
"How thoughtful of you to take such an interest in family heirlooms," Medea remarked, her tone edged with ice.
Selene turned, her smile unflinching. "It is not merely an interest. It is my property now. And I must say, it's quite charming."
Medea's lips curved into a strained smile. "Charming, indeed. But surely such an ancient estate must be overwhelming to manage?"
Selene's laughter was light but deliberate. "Not at all. With the Duke by my side, nothing is overwhelming. But I do appreciate your concern."
Medea's nails dug into her palms, her composure wavering. "Do enjoy it, then," she said, her voice tight.
"Oh, I will," Selene replied, her attention already drifting back to her companions, dismissing Medea as though she were little more than a fleeting shadow.