Two weeks had passed, and the air in Anemoi was thick with tension, far from the calm that had been expected. Lyra, ever the picture of grace, had immersed herself in her royal duties, all the while weaving a delicate web of schemes. She kept Nabal's paranoia simmering with subtle precision—each "gift" she delivered served only to deepen his unraveling mind. The king, already on the edge, found disturbing tokens at every turn: stacks of incriminating syringes, cryptic notes written in what appeared to be blood, all designed to keep his guilt ever-present. Despite her official duties, Lyra always made time for these "surprises"—for they were as much a part of her strategy as any formal meeting.
Excitement stirred the duchy as the wedding of Duke Wren to Medea's cousin loomed ever closer. Nobles from neighboring territories were expected to attend, and the social whirl of the season had only just begun. Among the most anticipated guests was none other than Prince Alaric of the neighboring kingdom, whose arrival promised to add yet another layer of intrigue to the already bubbling pot.
Prince Alaric was a vision that commanded attention. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried an air of both authority and charm that was undeniable. His piercing blue eyes held a sharpness that could cut through the most tangled of mysteries, and his golden-blond hair shimmered like sunlight on a calm sea. His attire—navy with silver embroidery, polished boots gleaming—spoke of wealth and power, but his presence was what truly captivated.
Upon his arrival, he was introduced to the royal family, and it was here that he first laid eyes on Lyra. She stood with effortless poise, her lavender gown speaking of quiet elegance, with intricate lacework tracing the edges like a whispered secret. Her dark hair cascaded in loose curls, held in place by a simple silver hairpin, which only added to her allure.
"Your Highness," Alaric greeted with a bow, his voice warm with genuine interest. "It is a pleasure to finally meet the famed Crown Princess of Anemoi."
"The pleasure is mine, Your Highness," Lyra replied, her smile poised but tinged with a formality that spoke volumes of her station.
From that very moment, Alaric found himself captivated by her—her smile, though polite, held an unspoken warmth that lingered in his mind long after the exchange.
While Lyra maintained her carefully constructed distance, Karen—Medea's daughter—saw an opportunity to make her own mark. Dressed in a bold crimson gown with an elaborate train, her dark hair twisted into a dramatic updo, Karen approached Prince Alaric during the evening's gathering. Her green eyes sparkled with calculated intent, each movement deliberate, as if designed to draw him in.
"Your Highness," Karen cooed, her voice soft, tinged with feigned innocence. "I trust you are enjoying your stay in Anemoi?"
"It has been most pleasant thus far," Alaric replied, though his tone was distant, betraying little of the interest she clearly sought.
"Oh, how heartening to hear," Karen sighed delicately, placing a hand to her chest as though burdened by the weight of the world. "Our lands are beautiful, yes, but the people here—" She paused, eyes downcast with an air of false modesty. "They can be... cruel at times. Such is the burden of nobility, I suppose."
Alaric arched an eyebrow. "Cruel? How so?"
"Ah, but I should not trouble you with my woes, Your Highness," Karen demurred, her voice trembling ever so slightly, adding just enough vulnerability to her words. "One must always be strong in the face of those who misunderstand us."
Her words were carefully laced with the perfect balance of pity and intrigue, hoping to ensnare his interest. Yet, Alaric's thoughts kept wandering back to Lyra, and he found it increasingly difficult to engage with the woman before him.
News soon spread across the court that Prince Alaric had not come merely for the wedding celebrations, but with an ulterior motive—to seek a bride. This revelation sparked a frenzy among the noblewomen, with Medea, Wily, Karen, and even Nabal positioning themselves to win his favor. Medea presented her children with a flawless grace, while Karen donned her most enchanting smile at every opportunity. Wily, less overt but no less determined, attempted to impress Alaric with deep discussions of politics and trade. Yet, despite all their efforts, Alaric found himself drawn to someone else entirely.
One afternoon, while walking through the royal gardens, he happened upon Lyra. She stood serenely before a rose bush, her sky-blue gown flowing like the soft breeze that rustled the petals. The scent of the flowers seemed to envelop them both, adding to the sense of peace that radiated from her.
"Your Highness," Alaric called softly, his voice filled with purpose.
Lyra turned, startled but composed. "Prince Alaric," she greeted, her expression neutral, yet something in her eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity.
"I have read the letters you exchanged with Grand Prince Dylan de Helios," Alaric said, his tone measured, as though weighing his words carefully.
Lyra's heart skipped, though she masked it well. "I see."
"They do not strike me as letters of lovers," he continued. "They remind me more of the exchanges I have with childhood friends—warm, yet not romantic."
Lyra's lips parted in surprise, but she said nothing.
Alaric took a step closer, his expression growing earnest. "I have come to tell you that I wish to marry you. I admire your strength, your intellect, and your compassion. A union between our kingdoms would be advantageous."
Lyra's mind raced, her heart caught between the weight of his words and the unspoken bond she shared with another. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Alaric added, "I wish to know your thoughts before I make this proposal official."
"Dylan?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes, I am aware of the rumors between you and Grand Prince Dylan. But rumors hold little sway with me."
Before he could speak further, Lyra's gaze shifted over his shoulder, and her expression transformed. Her eyes widened, and a radiant smile spread across her face—a smile that sent warmth straight to Alaric's chest.
Curious, he turned to follow her gaze, only to find Grand Prince Dylan approaching, his dark green military coat glinting with golden accents. Dylan's presence was commanding, his figure a study in strength and quiet confidence.
"Excuse me, Your Highness," Lyra said hastily, her voice light with excitement. She quickly stepped around Alaric, walking briskly toward Dylan. Without hesitation, she embraced him in a hug that spoke volumes—affection, familiarity, and something deeper.
"Dylan!" she exclaimed, her joy uncontained. "What are you doing here? You didn't even inform me beforehand!"
Dylan's gaze softened as he caressed her hands, his voice tender. "I wanted to surprise you. And," he added with a sly grin, "I brought you a gift."
"A gift?" Lyra's curiosity was piqued.
"We'll speak of it later," Dylan said, his eyes flickering to Alaric before returning to Lyra. "But first, tell me—who is this?"
Alaric watched their interaction with growing intrigue, the silent bond between them palpable. It became abundantly clear that no words were necessary to understand what existed between Lyra and Dylan.
The garden, bathed in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun, seemed like a scene from a dream. The flowers bloomed in full vibrance, their colors vivid against the backdrop of manicured hedges. A breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of jasmine, mingling with the heady fragrance of roses. This serene setting belied the tension that simmered just beneath the surface, a tension that held Lyra and Dylan close in a moment of delicate conversation.
Lyra stood poised, her lilac gown catching the sunlight, the fabric shimmering as if woven from the very glow of the sun itself. At her side, Dylan stood like a protective sentinel. His dark green coat, rich with golden buttons and a high collar, only served to accentuate his commanding presence. His hand rested lightly, but with unmistakable ownership, at Lyra's waist. His gaze, sharp and discerning, was fixed firmly on the third prince of a neighboring kingdom, Alaric, who stood before them.
Alaric, ever composed and dignified, inclined his head slightly. "Grand Prince Dylan, I presume," he greeted, his voice smooth and respectful, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper.
Dylan offered a curt nod, his hand not leaving Lyra's waist, his stance unyielding. "Prince Alaric," he replied, his voice steady but laced with tension. "What were the two of you discussing?"
Lyra, her cheeks flushed with the sudden heat of the moment, nudged Dylan gently with her elbow. "Dylan, please," she murmured, her voice low but firm. "There's no need to be so direct."
Dylan raised an eyebrow but didn't speak further, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if daring Alaric to answer.
Lyra took a deep breath and turned to face Alaric, her gaze softening as their eyes met. "Your Highness," she began, her voice calm yet edged with a tinge of regret. "I don't know how much of the rumors you've heard, but I assure you that most of them are true."
Alaric's face remained neutral, but there was a fleeting flicker of disappointment in his eyes.
Lyra continued, her tone steady and sincere. "The reason I never addressed those rumors is because they aren't entirely false. And if something is true, why bother trying to justify it? I appreciate your sincerity, truly, but I must apologize. This"—she gestured delicately between them—"is something that can never, ever happen." Her words were final, as though they were etched in stone, each syllable carrying the weight of an irreversible decision.
Dylan, however, was not one to let such things pass quietly. "What will never happen?" he interjected sharply, his brow furrowing. "Why are you apologizing to him?" He cast a suspicious glance at Alaric, his voice turning sardonic. "Rumors? What rumors? Oh... us?" He shook his head in mock disbelief. "What sincerity?"
Lyra shot him a look that could silence the most unruly of men, but Dylan, ever the stubborn one, crossed his arms and waited for her to explain herself.
Alaric, maintaining his composure, gave a small but respectful nod. "I thank you for your honesty, Your Highness," he said, addressing Lyra. "I wish you happiness." With a final respectful bow, he turned and left, his regal bearing unmarred, though the sting of rejection lingered in his wake.
As Alaric's retreating figure disappeared from view, Dylan turned to Lyra, his impatience barely contained. "Well?" he prompted, his voice edged with both demand and jealousy.
Lyra turned to him, exhaling softly, her gaze fond. She took his hand in hers and replied casually, "It's nothing, Dylan. He proposed, and I rejected him. Now, tell me about this gift you mentioned."
Dylan's jaw dropped, his eyes widening with disbelief. "Proposed?" he repeated incredulously. "As in, a marriage proposal? Is he out of his mind?" His grip on her hand tightened, his tone darkening. "This is exactly why I keep saying we should make it public! I can't stand men approaching you like this."
Lyra's lips curved into a soft, affectionate smile as she pulled him into a warm embrace. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she murmured, "I wish we could too, Dylan. And for the record, I hate girls approaching you like this."
Dylan pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing with concern. "You've heard about that?"
Lyra chuckled, her laughter light and melodic. "Of course, silly. You wrote to me about the countess's daughter who stood outside your palace, insisting she didn't believe the rumors and wouldn't leave unless she met you."
Dylan groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I took care of it," he muttered. "Her parents came and dragged her back. They apologized profusely."
Lyra's eyes sparkled with mirth as she laughed again, the sound like music in the warm afternoon air. "I like how we share every detail of our lives without ever worrying about what the other might think," she said, her voice soft with affection. She leaned in to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Dylan raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a mischievous smile. "Only on the cheek?" he teased, tilting her chin up gently. Before she could respond, he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was tender yet lingering, a kiss that held the promise of many more to come.
As they parted, Lyra's cheeks were flushed with surprise, her eyes wide. "Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly, her hands resting lightly on his chest. "What about the gift you were talking about earlier?"
"Please gather in the throne room with the necessary vessels and I shall see you there in a moment with the gift I caught for you." Dylan smiled slyly as he went off on the other direction, after kissing her forehead lightly.
The throne room of Anemoi was grand, its high vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate carvings depicting the kingdom's rich history, while beams of light streamed through tall, arched windows. The air was thick with tension, every eye in the room fixed on the man bound in ropes at the center—Hubris, his disheveled appearance a stark contrast to the pristine marble floors and regal atmosphere. His face was pale, dark hair unkempt, his lips curled into an unsettling smile, as if he reveled in his own downfall.
At the far end of the room, Lyra sat on her throne, poised and regal, yet alert. She wore a deep sapphire gown, the shimmering fabric cascading around her like flowing water, silver embroidery tracing the neckline and sleeves. A delicate crown rested atop her head, her expression calm, but her sharp eyes betrayed the underlying irritation she felt. Beside her, Nabal sat, his face pale and drawn, the weight of the room pressing down on him.
The doors to the throne room creaked open, and Dylan walked in, commanding attention. His polished black boots echoed through the silence as he strode forward in his Helios military uniform, golden epaulets gleaming, his sword sheathed at his side. At his feet, Hubris was dragged in by two Helios knights.
"Your Majesties," Dylan said, bowing lightly before straightening. His piercing gaze swept the room, landing on Lyra. A brief smile flickered across his lips, only to vanish as he turned back to the matter at hand. "Look who I found sneaking into the wrong territory."
He gestured to Hubris, who stood bound, smirking.
"I apprehended him while he was attempting to smuggle stolen goods across Helios's northern border. According to Helios law, I am entitled to prosecute him for his crimes, but since he is a citizen of Anemoi, I require official authorization to proceed."
Dylan's voice was calm, firm, and precise. He stepped back, his stance relaxed, yet ready for anything.
Before anyone could respond, Medea, standing among the nobles, erupted.
"Where is it?" she shrieked, her face contorted in rage. Her emerald-green gown, once immaculate, now seemed to suffocate her as she stormed forward. "Where is the money you stole? Return it, you ungrateful wretch!"
Hubris tilted his head, letting out a low chuckle. His bound hands twitched slightly, his voice taunting, venom dripping from every word.
"Stole?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "It was never yours, Mother, so there's nothing to return."
The room fell silent, only audible gasps from the nobles breaking the stillness. Medea's face turned a dangerous shade of red, and she took another step forward.
"How dare you speak to me like that? I sacrificed everything for you, you—"
"Enough." Lyra's voice cut through the air, quiet but commanding. Medea froze, her fists clenched, while Hubris's eyes gleamed with malice, his attention now fully on the queen.
"Well, well," Hubris drawled, his eyes scanning over Lyra. "If it isn't the radiant Crown Princess herself." He smirked, his voice taking on a mocking lilt. "You look as ravishing as ever. I only wish I—"
Before he could finish, there was a sharp crack. Dylan's sword, still sheathed, struck the back of Hubris's head with a resounding thud.
The room collectively held its breath as Hubris staggered forward, slumping to his knees. Dylan stood over him, expression unreadable as he casually adjusted the sword in his hand.
"Ah," he said, his tone laced with feigned concern. "Looks like the journey exhausted him. Poor thing fell asleep mid-sentence." He turned back to Lyra and Nabal, brushing his hands off as if dismissing the matter. "Now, Your Majesties, back to the main task. Do I have your authorization or not?"
Lyra's lips twitched, suppressing a smile at Dylan's antics. She straightened in her seat, exchanging a brief glance with Nabal, who appeared more focused on the papers in front of him than the scene unfolding.
"I see no reason to deny it," Lyra said, her voice steady as she signed the authorization scroll. Her signature was fluid, precise—a reflection of her decisive nature. She passed the scroll to Nabal, who hesitated briefly before signing as well, his hand trembling slightly.
Dylan stepped forward, taking the scroll with a nod. "Splendid," he said, his tone lighter now that the formalities were over. He rolled up the document and handed it to one of his knights.
As Hubris began to stir, groaning softly, Dylan leaned down and whispered something to him—a warning, perhaps, though the words were inaudible to those in the room. When he straightened, his gaze was sharp, his focus now on the exit.
"If there are no further interruptions," Dylan said, glancing briefly at Medea, who looked ready to burst with frustration, "we'll be on our way."
"Very well," Lyra replied, her voice calm but firm. "Thank you, Grand Prince, for handling this matter so swiftly."
Dylan's eyes softened as he turned back to Lyra, inclining his head slightly. "Anything for you, Princess."
As the Helios knights began escorting Hubris out of the throne room, the air seemed to lighten, though the tension lingered in the unspoken words exchanged between the remaining figures.
Medea seethed silently, her thoughts racing as she watched her son being dragged away, while Nabal's gaze flickered nervously toward Lyra, who sat unmoved, her expression calm, yet her eyes glinting with determination.
The game, it seemed, was far from over.