The sun rose, casting long rays across the corridors of the palace. The breeze flicked as if frightened by the whispers that lived within those ancient walls. Inside Lady Miranda's chamber, the curtains were drawn, the air heavy with the scent of burning amberwood and scheming thoughts.
Rael stood by the window, his arms folded. His golden hair caught the faint light from the hearth, his expression carved in stone. "You summoned me at this hour for what reason, my lady?" he asked, his voice smooth but edged with impatience.
Miranda sat before her vanity, brushing her dark hair in deliberate strokes. Every move she made dripped with composure, but the fire in her eyes betrayed the storm beneath. "You and I have been patient long enough, Rael," she began softly, her reflection meeting his. "We both know the crown does not rest on the right head."
He arched a brow. "So we're starting that talk again?"
