Queen Ingrid Anneliese sat in the glass pavilion on the eastern wing of the palace, nestled in her private reading room overlooking the royal gardens. In front of her, a porcelain teacup released a thin curl of steam, while an old book with a deep blue leather cover lay open across her lap. Its pages were yellowed at the edges, some corners curled and worn, clearly a favorite, revisited often.
Every so often, her finger paused between lines, and her gaze drifted out the window. Beyond the glass, the breeze stirred the petals of a white rose that had bloomed just that morning. Calm. Controlled. Much like her life over the past decade, no surprises, no disruptions.
And lately, that calm had begun to feel … dull.
When soft footsteps echoed from the doorway, Ingrid didn't turn. Only the corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not one born of joy.
"Is it truly urgent, Lira?" she asked, eyes still on the page. "Or are you simply here to interrupt me?"
