The morning meeting with her father, King Theron, was a tense affair. Prince Rhydian stood beside Lyra, a silent, imposing presence. King Theron, frail from the ongoing stress of the Blight, spoke of the necessity of the alliance, praising Rhydian's strength while carefully avoiding any mention of the terrifying display from the previous day. Rhydian, for his part, offered only terse, formal responses, his golden eyes betraying nothing.
As the meeting concluded, Lyra found herself alone with Lord Valerius, who had remained behind. "Your Highness, the court is... agitated," he began, his voice low. "The display yesterday, while effective, has fueled old fears. Rumors of the Drakhar bloodline are resurfacing."
"What rumors?" Lyra asked, though she had heard them since childhood—tales of shapeshifters, of men who could turn into monstrous beasts, of dragon's fire in human veins.
"That their power is not merely strength, but a connection to the very wildness that consumes our land. Some suggest they are not immune to the Blight, but rather its masters." Valerius paused, his gaze sharp. "And there are whispers, Lyra, that Chancellor Thorne has been unusually active in the past weeks, sending couriers to the northern territories, far from the Blight's current reach."
Chancellor Thorne. Lyra's father's most trusted advisor, second only to Valerius. A man known for his meticulous nature and unyielding loyalty. The accusation felt like a betrayal. "What could Thorne possibly gain from such actions?"
"Information, perhaps. Or, leverage," Valerius replied, his voice grave. "The northern lords have always been wary of the Drakhar, and Thorne has always been their champion in court. I merely suggest caution, Your Highness. In these desperate times, loyalty can be a fragile thing."
Lyra spent the rest of the day navigating the treacherous waters of the court. Every noble seemed to eye her with a mixture of pity and suspicion. The women of the court, once her confidantes, now whispered behind their fans, their eyes darting towards her and then to the distant wing where Rhydian was housed.
She sought out Thorne, finding him in his study, poring over maps. He greeted her with his usual calm demeanor, but Lyra noticed a subtle tension in his shoulders, a fleeting shadow in his eyes. She questioned him about the northern couriers, feigning casual curiosity about trade routes. Thorne's answers were smooth, too smooth, filled with vague reassurances about securing supplies. He avoided her direct gaze.
Later, as dusk settled, Lyra found herself in the palace library, ostensibly seeking ancient texts on the Blight, but truly hoping to clear her mind. The air was cool, filled with the scent of old parchment. She traced her fingers over dusty spines, her thoughts consumed by Thorne's evasiveness.
A faint sound made her freeze. A soft thud, as if a heavy book had been placed on a table. She wasn't alone.
She rounded a tall bookshelf, her heart pounding, to find Prince Rhydian. He stood by a large, ornate table, his back to her, a thick, leather-bound tome open before him. The light from a nearby window caught the subtle, almost imperceptible gleam of what looked like faint, iridescent scales along his jawline, just beneath his ear. They vanished as quickly as they appeared, a trick of the light, perhaps.
He turned, his golden eyes meeting hers. There was no surprise in his gaze, only a quiet intensity. He had known she was there.
"Princess," he acknowledged, his voice a low, gravelly sound that always sent a shiver down her spine. "Seeking knowledge?"
"And you, Prince?" Lyra countered, her voice sharper than she intended. "Do the Drakhar seek knowledge in dusty halls, or only in the roar of battle?"
A flicker of something—amusement? annoyance?—crossed his face. "Knowledge is a weapon, Princess. One often more potent than steel." He gestured to the book. "I seek understanding of your Blight. Your scholars have documented its progression for centuries."
Lyra approached the table, her curiosity overriding her apprehension. The book was an ancient bestiary, filled with intricate drawings of mythical creatures. But the page he was on depicted a grotesque, skeletal figure, its eyes glowing with the same malevolent light as the Blighted. Beneath it, a faded, almost illegible inscription in a language she didn't recognize.
"What is that?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Rhydian's gaze was fixed on the drawing. "A legend. A forgotten terror. They call it... the Ash-Eater."
He didn't elaborate, but the way his fingers traced the ancient script, and the sudden, chilling cold that permeated the air around them, told Lyra that this was no mere legend to him. It was a truth, and one that held a terrifying connection to the very plague consuming her kingdom.