Seraphine and Lyra walked in silence through the vast gardens of Lupenhold Palace, the tension between them as thick as the summer air. Petals danced in the breeze, but nothing softened the sharpness of what hung between them.
Then, at last, the queen spoke.
"You already have my son wrapped around your finger. He's defending you in front of his own parents."
Lyra halted mid-step. The hatred blazing in Queen Seraphine's eyes was unmistakable. She had sensed the queen's coldness before—but this was different. These words were knives.
Lowering her gaze, Lyra blinked back the tears threatening to spill.
"But that doesn't mean he will accept you," Seraphine continued, her voice ice-cold. "Our people will never see your child as the rightful heir to the throne. And one day, he will have to choose a real queen—someone who can stand beside him with pride, not shame."
