The hall was too full for the silence that came afterward.
A red carpet split the polished floor like an old wound, leading to three steps raised above the rest of the room. There, at the highest point, General Aurelian stood.
He was reading a decree in a clear, unhurried voice—the voice of someone accustomed to speaking to people who obeyed before they understood.
The double doors opened.
The reading did not end—it was interrupted.
The words died in the air before they could reach the floor.
The silence was not enforced by guards.
It simply happened.
Aurelian lifted his eyes from the paper, irritated by the disruption. He prepared his customary look of disdain for whoever had arrived late.
But the disdain caught in his throat.
He saw the green.
For an instant no one could measure, the General did not look surprised, nor curious.
He looked… out of rhythm.
As if a discordant note had been struck in his perfect symphony.
Then the hall breathed again.
And understood.
She entered.
Not in a rush.
Not with the hesitation of a servant.
She entered like someone crossing a place she had already decided to belong to—even if the place itself had not yet decided to accept her.
The green came first.
Not as a color, but as a declaration.
A deep, living green—too alive for halls accustomed to blood-red, coin-gold, mourning-black. The fabric fell in long, fluid layers, like leaf upon leaf, held by small white jewels that caught the light.
Stars glimpsed through a forest at night.
Behind her, the moon hung high in the window, aligned above her left shoulder.
Not as a backdrop, but as an accomplice.
Then came the sound.
Small. Steady. Irreversible.
Tap. Tap.
The wood of her shoes against the polished floor. Each step echoed more than it should have—not because it was loud, but because it was improper. The red carpet waited at the center, stretched out like an invitation that had never been written for her.
The eyes of the nobility traveled upward.
From the dress—to the proud line of her neck—to her face.
And that was where enchantment turned into shock.
It wasn't the beauty.
It wasn't the audacity.
It was the ears.
Long. Pointed. Unmistakable.
Impossible to dismiss as a trick of the light.
An elf.
Not pouring wine.
Not kneeling to scrub the floor.
Walking among them.
The hall understood too late.
They were not witnessing a scandal.
They were witnessing a precedent.
Up above, Aurelian remained motionless.
The paper still suspended between his fingers, as if the text had lost its importance at the exact moment something far more dangerous had been written into the air.
Who allowed this? the thought cut through his mind, sharp and furious. Who let her out of the cage dressed like a queen?
Lyra advanced along the red carpet.
Her gaze stayed forward.
Straight at him.
Her eyes met his.
There was no magic in it.
No apology.
Only recognition.
I am here. And you cannot order me to fetch wine now.
She stopped at the base of the steps, where the nobility parted as if she carried contagion.
But someone did not step away.
Elion moved forward, leaving the line of spectators. His face showed no shame—only a quiet, ferocious pride.
Lyra broke eye contact with Aurelian and smiled at Elion.
A full smile—open, radiant, uncalculated. A smile that made her even more striking than the dress.
She took the gentle cousin's arm.
The gesture was far too natural to question. Too intimate to ignore.
With the heels, she stood slightly taller—barely two centimeters, but enough to tilt the balance of the world.
She leaned toward Elion.
"Am I late?" she whispered, loud enough for the front rows to hear.
"You arrived at the exact moment," Elion replied, offering his arm firmly.
There, in that small gesture, an island formed.
Safe. Understandable. Acceptable.
And that was precisely what made the moment unbearable for those watching from above.
At the highest point, Aurelian lowered his eyes for a brief instant.
It was not dramatic.
His shoulders did not stiffen.
Just the smallest pause—like someone swallowing something bitter and pretending it's water.
He aligned the paper between his fingers, an automatic motion, too precise. When he spoke again, his voice was the same. The tone unchanged.
"…as decreed by the council, the northern borders…"
The paper remained.
The words remained.
But something had slipped out of place.
He read two more lines without difficulty. At some point, he realized he knew the entire text by heart—and still he kept his eyes on the page, refusing to look down again.
The hall listened, hypnotized by the tension.
He was in control.
He always had been.
And yet, for a moment too brief to be called a flaw, his eyes strayed.
Not to her.
Not to his cousin.
But to the space between them.
Her pale arm resting against the dark velvet of Elion's sleeve.
The easy closeness.
The trust.
None of it concerned him.
None of those smiles were meant for the General.
He kept reading.
Anyone watching with surgical attention would have noticed he skipped a word.
Then another.
Nothing that changed the meaning.
Just small adjustments.
Small compensations from a man who had just lost control of the room—and hated admitting it.
When he finished, Aurelian folded the paper with contained violence and handed it to an aide.
The moment was over.
Everything had worked. The speech had been delivered.
And yet, as the General descended the three steps to join the festivities, his stride was half a beat slower than before.
Not from doubt.
Not from fear.
But like a man walking across ground he knows by heart—only to realize, suddenly, that it may be mined.