Vyrelda's gaze lingered on Mikhailis as he adjusted his glasses, leaning casually against the inn's wooden frame. The golden afternoon light illuminated his disheveled hair and faint smirk, and despite her doubts, Vyrelda couldn't deny the sense of intrigue growing in her chest. When she had first seen him arrive at the border village, she had expected someone entirely different. This man—the supposed Prince Consort of Silvarion Thalor—was nothing like the noblemen she had encountered before.