The girl sat across from another girl whose age was not far from her own—Shiria van Orness. The two of them sat at ease, enjoying the light refreshments laid before them, accompanied by a cup of warm tea that had just been poured by a servant.
Lyria waited for the girl in front of her to begin the conversation, quietly sipping from her teacup.
Shiria looked at the Marchioness with a cold gaze before finally speaking.
"You seem well, Mother," Shiria said flatly. "I hear your routine consists only of remaining within the estate, as usual."
As usual.
Lyria was aware that, as a noble, she often neglected her obligation to attend social gatherings among the aristocracy. She had always been withdrawn, even from before her late husband passed away.
The difference was, back then, she had still been an eleven-year-old girl taken in from the lower classes. That alone served as a reasonable alibi as to why the Marchioness of the Orness family did not participate in noble society—she had been too young, and there was still much she needed to learn.
However, in reality, even after five years had passed, Lyria remained reluctant to take part in such activities. Despite the fact that she had mastered all noble etiquette to perfection—enough to seemingly erase any trace of her origins—she still chose to stay away.
Shiria slowly took a sip of her tea, then carefully set the cup back down.
"I am sixteen now, Mother."
She lifted her gaze, looking directly at Lyria.
"Isn't it about time… for something to return to where it rightfully belongs?"
A brief silence followed.
"Abel is, in truth, far more deserving of the title of Marquis. Regardless of his age, he possesses a charisma and insight that cannot be overlooked."
A faint smile formed at the corner of Shiria's lips—thin, and cold.
"Though it seems he is more interested in the sword than the throne."
She leaned back gracefully.
"So, as the elder sibling… I am willing to take on what remains."
Lyria looked at Shiria calmly, almost without any visible change in expression.
"From the very beginning… none of this was ever mine," she said softly. "I only safeguarded what had once been entrusted to me."
She did not mention the name, yet its presence was unmistakably felt between them.
The teacup in Shiria's hand paused briefly near her lips. The movement was almost imperceptible, yet enough to suggest something had been unsettled. Her gaze hardened slightly, though that faint smile still lingered.
Lyria continued, her voice remaining gentle.
"Even so… I still hold hope, Shiria."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Only the soft sound of porcelain meeting its saucer broke the stillness.
"When the time comes," Lyria went on, "everything will return to its proper place."
She lowered her gaze to the tea that had begun to lose its warmth.
"And when that moment arrives… we will all understand the part that truly belongs to us."
There was no affirmation, no refusal. Yet it was clear—the conversation had reached its limit, at least for that afternoon.