Elias Morn

The small parlor was bathed in cold morning light, filtering through the tall, lancet windows. The gilding on the tapestries gleamed dully, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed too thick, too deep. The faint scent of incense from the previous night's service still hung in the air—tart, cloying. Duke Elias Morn stood by the fireplace, leaning slightly toward Lyra Vale. His voice was quiet, almost intimate—he was explaining something about trade routes, but his gaze lingered on her face longer than was proper. Lyra listened, her lashes lowered, but her fingers involuntarily tugged at the edge of her lace cuff. When she finally looked up and met Elias's gaze, a spark passed between them for a moment—a spark that needed no words.

At that moment, the doors swung open with a sharp bang. Elias's bride stood frozen in the doorway—beautiful, in a silvery-gray dress that accentuated her icy beauty. She took in the scene with a quick, sharp glance: the distance was too close, the blush on Lyra's cheeks. The girl felt irritated. That Lady Vale again. Stupid snake. Stepping forward, the princess stopped in the center of the room. A smile played on her lips—thin, almost imperceptible—but a cold fire sparkled in her eyes. Slowly, with studied politeness, she said:

"Lady Vale... How touching to see you so actively caring for the Duchy's affairs. And how... remarkable that you decided to share this burden with my future husband, and without me, no less."

Lyra paled and took a step back, her hand instinctively touching her throat. Elias straightened, the muscles in his neck tensing, but he tried to remain calm.

"Princess," he said reservedly, "this is merely a discussion of trade agreements. Lady Vale has valuable information about the eastern provinces."

Suddenly, the princess became furious. How could Elias so openly, so disdainfully, show his love for another? He was destroying everything she'd worked so hard to build. And this Lady Lyra was only making things worse. What was she to do?