The Blood of the Crown [BL]

The sound of the carriage wheels echoed along the stone roads, filling the heavy silence between us.

The gentle swaying of the vehicle made the lantern light flicker, casting wavering shadows across the cramped interior.

Lyra stared fixedly out the window, her fingers tightening around the delicate lace of her dress, as if holding onto the fabric could restrain the thoughts dancing through her mind. Her green eyes followed the slowly passing landscape, but it was clear her mind was far, far away.

I, on the other hand, was far more interested in the way she shifted every few seconds, restless. A small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips before I decided to break the silence.

— Something wrong? — I asked, keeping my tone casual but laced with provocation.

She blinked, snapping out of her thoughts, and turned her gaze from the window just enough to shoot me a quick look.

— Nothing. — The reply was short, almost curt, but the sharp tone betrayed otherwise.

I chuckled lowly, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

— Oh, sure. Because nothing says "nothing's wrong" like sighing every thirty seconds.

Her shoulders tensed. A direct hit.

— Thinking about the ball? — I continued, feigning disinterest while studying her. — Or perhaps about what Bianca said?

This time, Lyra turned to me completely, her green eyes flashing under the dim lantern light.

— I'm not thinking about any of that. I just… I'm just tired.

— Tired of what? — I raised an eyebrow, barely containing the amusement in my voice. — You spent half the day sighing over the crown prince and the other half being insulted by Bianca. Seems like a pretty light routine to me.

Her face tightened in instant irritation.

— You're impossible, Zephyr!

She crossed her arms, returning her attention to the window as if her sheer indignation could erase me from existence.

— Yes, yes, I've heard that before. — I leaned back against the seat, letting my head tilt slightly as I stared at the wooden ceiling. — But if you want my opinion, you should stay away from that prince. He's not what he seems.

There was a moment of silence, as if she were debating whether responding was even worth it. Then, slowly, she turned back to me, her voice laced with challenge.

— And are you?

My lips curled into a lazy smile.

— I never said I was.

Her gaze narrowed, frustration evident in the way her breath hitched slightly. She hated when I dodged questions.

— But at least I'm honest about it. — I added, satisfied with her reaction.

She huffed, turning sharply back to the window, ending the conversation.

The rest of the ride passed in silence—a heavy silence, thick with unspoken words. Lyra was clearly making an effort to ignore my presence, and I, in turn, found it incredibly entertaining.

When we finally arrived at the estate, the familiar sight of stone towers and wrought-iron gates brought a strange sense of familiarity. As much as this place wasn't truly mine, it was starting to feel like it.

The carriage came to a smooth stop, and the doors were opened by the servants. I stepped out first, the night breeze ruffling my hair slightly. Without haste, I extended a hand to Lyra.

She hesitated for an instant—a tiny moment of indecision—but eventually accepted. Her fingers were delicate but cold against mine. The second her feet touched the stone pavement, she quickly withdrew her hand, her gaze still laced with irritation.

— Welcome back, Master Zephyr. Lady Lyra.

Mateus awaited us on the entrance steps, his posture rigid as always, his eyes serious. He was a man of few words, and I liked that about him.

— Mateus, inform my father that I'm home. And tell him I need to speak with him.

I walked past him without waiting for a response, climbing the entrance steps with familiarity.

— Yes, Master. — He gave a discreet bow before disappearing to carry out the order.

The mansion was quiet, but the air carried the scent of polished wood and spices—a comforting combination. The grand hall stretched before me, illuminated only by a few candles and the silver glow of the moon streaming through the tall glass windows. The muffled sound of footsteps and distant conversations hinted at the presence of servants elsewhere in the house, but here, in the entrance hall, only Lyra and I remained.

When I turned to her, I noticed her slight hesitation at the threshold.

— What is it now? — I asked, crossing my arms.

She straightened immediately, as if my voice had pulled her back to reality.

— Nothing. I just… I think I'll head to my quarters.

Her bow was short, formal, clearly an attempt to avoid further teasing.

— As you wish. — I shrugged, a faint smirk on my lips. — But don't forget, we need to discuss the ball. I don't want you ruining my plan with some romantic notion.

Her brow furrowed, and her mouth opened as if to retort, but instead, she simply pressed her lips together and turned toward the stairs.

I watched her ascend, her steps brisk, the fabric of her dress flowing with each movement.

Letting out a sigh, I ran a hand through my hair. There was no time to deal with Lyra's complicated emotions right now.

There were far more important matters to handle.

The corridor was wrapped in solemn silence, save for the occasional creak of wood beneath my steps and the distant flickering of flames in the wall-mounted lanterns. The air was heavy, steeped in the familiar scent of aged parchment and melted wax.

I made my way toward my father's study, knowing he would be there at this hour. The door was slightly ajar, and his deep, authoritative voice carried through the hallway, laced with impatience.

— I don't care what they say. I want those reports delivered before dawn.

I paused just outside, observing the silhouette of a man with an unyielding posture inside the dimly lit room.

Lucien Delacroix had never liked being contradicted. He ruled his household with the same relentless discipline he commanded on the battlefield.

I knocked twice before stepping inside.

— Father.

He lifted his gaze from a parchment, his glasses resting on the bridge of his sharp nose.