By the time Lyria reached her chambers, the sun was starting to set and the lanterns were lighting. The palace always look it's most beautiful at dusk.
She slipped inside her room, closing the door with a sigh of relief. The small bag she took from the library hit the bed with a faint thump.
" Right," she muttered. " Operation 'Don't Let Anyone Realise I'm Obsessed with a Demon General' begins now."
She opened the same drawer as this morning where she hid her burned clothes and shoved the bag with all she had worked on today.
She closed the drawer and one quick charm sealed it shut. If any curious person opened it, all they'd see was a collection of old dresses and perfume bottles.
Once her sins were safely buried, she changed into a dinner gown: midnight-blue silk with silver embroidery. She pinned her hair in a soft braid simple enough to please her mother.
Her stomach rumbled as she walked to the dining hall. She hadn't eaten all day, and if she didn't faint from hunger, the conversation would probably kill her instead.
—-
The royal dining hall was already bright when she entered — a long table with crystal goblets and golden dishes. The air smelled of roasted herbs, honeyed bread, and the faint scent of wine.
At the head of the table sat Queen Seraphine Ardenthal, posture perfect, her silver hair bound in a regal twist. Her eyes were pale and sharp, they softened slightly when she saw her daughter.
Across from her sat King Aldren, his usual calm amusement barely hidden behind his glass.
"Ah, there she is," Aldren said as Lyria approached. "Our library obsessed daughter ."
Lyria bowed smoothly, smiling. "Your Majesty, Your Grace."
Her mother motioned for her to sit. "Good evening, Lyria. You missed lunch again."
"I was studying," Lyria said, trying to avoid eye contact . "Lost track of time."
Seraphine's eyebrow arched, the single, lethal movement known to make even soldiers afraid .
"You always lose track of time. I hope your studies at least serve the crown's interests."
"They do," Lyria said quickly. Technically true, she thought, if we count 'not dying in the dungeon of the Demon King's right hand' as national service.
Dinner began with silence and the only sound was from the plates, ustensiles and servants gliding in and out.
Then the queen turned her gaze toward her daughter, and Lyria knew something was coming.
"So," Seraphine began, her tone casual in the way a sword looks casual until it's at your throat, "what did you study today?"
Lyria smiled brightly. "History! Culture! The usual—very informative, very enriching."
Her mother tilted her head. "Demonic culture again?"
Lyria froze for half a heartbeat, then recovered with practiced grace. "I like to understand all civilizations, Mother. Knowledge is power, and all that."
Seraphine's lips twitched. "Indeed. And sometimes power gets you killed if you wander too close to it."
Aldren chuckled softly. "Darling, she's just curious. Curiosity keeps her sharp."
"Curiosity also gets her into trouble,"
Seraphine replied.
"Lyria, you are twenty-four—nearly twenty-five. Perhaps it's time your energy went toward something other than dusty tomes."
Lyria blinked. "Such as?"
"Finding a suitable partner."
The princess nearly choked on her wine. "A—partner?"
Her mother sipped her own drink, completely unfazed. "You will be queen one day. A ruler must have stability. You have responsibilities to the throne, to the people, to the future of our line."
"Mother, I—"
Aldren cut in gently. "Let her breathe, Seraphine. She has time."
The queen's gaze slid to him. "She is not a child anymore."
"And I'm not dead yet," he said lightly, smiling. "No need to rush the coronation with wedding bells."
Seraphine sighed, exasperated but amused. "You spoil her."
"I prefer the term supportive."
Lyria tried to look neutral, though her inner monologue was somewhere between thank you, Father and I'd rather marry a thunderstorm.
Her mother turned back to her, expression softening slightly. "I only want you to have balance, Lyria. You carry so much on your own shoulders. You deserve a partner who will help you."
That gentler tone hit differently. Lyria smiled faintly. "I know, Mother. I'll… consider it."
Which was, of course, a lie. The only person she was currently considering was technically classified as a national threat.
Dinner continued with less perilous topics. Lyria managed to focus on her plate for a while until an idea surfaced, sharp and brilliant.
She looked up suddenly, trying to sound casual. "Father?"
Aldren glanced over, mid-sip. "Hm?"
"Do we happen to have any… artifacts that can resist fire magic?"
Her mother paused her knife. "Fire magic?"
Lyria's brain scrambled for a plausible excuse. "Yes! Academic curiosity. I was reading about ancient wards and elemental protection charms, and I thought—well, it might be educational to, um, test one?"
The king leaned back slowly, studying her with that same patient look he used when she was five and trying to convince him the cat broke the vase.
"Educational," he repeated.
"Exactly," Lyria said, too brightly. "You know, research! Defense! Very thoughtful of me, really."
Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "You're not planning to use such an artifact, are you?"
"Of course not!" Lyria laughed nervously. "I'm a scholar, not a soldier."
Her father smirked. "Last month you said the same thing about archery."
"That was different," she said quickly. "I needed stress relief."
"By shooting at moving targets?"
"They moved on their own, it's their purpose !"
Seraphine pinched the bridge of her nose. "Lyria."
"Yes, Mother?"
"You have that look again."
"What look?"
"The one that means you're planning something bad."
Lyria gave her most innocent smile. "I would never."
Her father chuckled into his cup. "She absolutely would."
The queen sighed in resignation. "Your daughter takes after you."
"Thank you," Aldren said, pleased.
"It wasn't a compliment."
Lyria tried not to laugh. The relationship between her parents always fascinated her how her father's quiet humor melted her mother's severity, how even their disagreements held affection.
She pushed a piece of bread around her plate, her mind already spinning. If I can get a fire-resistant artifact, I can at least survive one more direct hit. Maybe two.
Her mother noticed her distant expression.
"You're thinking again."
"Like allways," Lyria said sweetly.
"About something dangerous.
"Not necessarily."
Seraphine's sigh was equal parts love and defeat. "Lyria, promise me whatever you're studying won't end with another diplomatic incident or you getting injured ."
"I promise."
"And that you won't blow anything up."
Lyria hesitated. "…Define blow up."
Her father nearly choked laughing. "She's your daughter, love. Accept it."
The queen set down her utensils, trying to maintain her composure. "One day, she'll be the death of me."
Lyria reached across the table and squeezed her mother's hand, smiling softly. "Never, Mother. You're far too terrifying for that."
That earned the faintest curve of a smile from Seraphine. "Flattery won't save you all time, my dear."
"Then I'll keep it for when I really need it," Lyria replied.
Dinner ended in laughter, the heavy topics forgotten for now.
When they rose to leave, her father touched her shoulder lightly.
"If you truly need that artifact," he said in a low voice, "visit the vault tomorrow morning. Tell the quartermaster I sent you. Just—try not to explain why."
Lyria blinked. "You believe me?"
"I believe you'll do what you want either way," he said with a grin. "At least this way you'll be protected."
She laughed softly, hugging him before he could protest. "Thank you, Father."
As her parents left for their chambers, Lyria lingered alone in the hall, gazing at the flickering candlelight.
She smiled to herself, whispering under her breath:
"Next time, Naya Blackwell, I will finally get closer to you ."