Morning Intrusion
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, soft and golden.
The fire had long since burned low.
Lysara lay among tangled sheets of scarlet and gold, bare beneath the covers, her skin still warm with the memory of the night before. The King was gone before dawn— duty called
But his scent lingered on her skin.
And his marks—barely visible, but felt—had not faded. And the way he’d said her name like a curse he never wanted lifted.
She hadn’t risen. She didn’t plan to. Not yet.
The door flung open, hard enough to make the hinges groan.
Queen Elira stormed in, wrapped in pearl-trimmed robes, her hair pristine, her fury barely masked behind a thin smile.
No guards. No knocking. No decorum.
Lysara didn’t bother covering herself fully. The silk sheet clung to her lazily, draped low across her chest as she propped herself on one arm, calm as a cat in the sun.. the sheet slipping just enough to remind Elira whose bed this had been.
Lysara
“Quite the entrance,” Lysara murmured, voice husky with sleep and something else entirely. “Though I suppose knocking is for those with manners.”
The Queen’s jaw tightened.
Her eyes swept the room—candles long burned down, goblets still stained, the scent of wine and sex unmistakable. The air was thick with the evidence of betrayal.
Queen Elira
Her eyes snapped back to Lysara. “You filthy little viper,” Elira hissed, “lie there like you belong.”
Lysara
“I do belong,” Lysara said smoothly, lifting a brow. “Is that what he called me?” she asked lazily. “I didn’t hear him complain.”
Queen Elira
“You dare gloat?” Elira snarled, stepping forward like she might strike her.
Lysara
Lysara’s smile was slow. Cold. “I’m not gloating, Elira. I’m resting. You’d be tired too, after a night like that.”
A flicker of pain—immediate, involuntary—flashed across Elira’s face. But she masked it quickly with disdain.
Queen Elira
“You were nothing more than a convenience. A distraction. Elira said, voice trembling with venom. “He’ll grow bored. You’ll be discarded like the others.”
Lysara
Lysara gave a soft, disinterested hum. “Perhaps. But he didn’t look tired last night. I doubt he ever marked them like he marked me.”
Elira’s fists clenched at her sides.
Queen Elira
“You think one night makes you queen?” Elira’s hands curled into fists.
Lysara
“No,” Lysara said softly, deadly. “But waking up here does. And I don’t want your crown,” Lysara said, eyes sharp now. “I already have the one thing you never will.”
Lysara leaned forward slowly, letting the sheet slip an inch more, her voice dropping to a whisper lined in steel.
Lysara
“I’m not a guest anymore. I’m not a curiosity. I’m what he wants, Elira. And that terrifies you.”
The Queen’s face went cold. Like glass cracking.
The Queen’s eyes flashed to the unmistakable bruise blooming on Lysara’s bare chest. Her face went pale, then cold.
Queen Elira
“You disgrace yourself,” she snapped. Trying to hold her power
Queen Elira
She stepped closer, trembling with fury. “You are a mistake he will live to regret.”
Lysara
“Then I suppose,” Lysara said coolly, “he’ll be regretting it again tonight.”
Queen Elira
Elira moved closer. “You’re vile.”
Lysara
Lysara’s smile deepened, just enough to wound. “Aunt,” she said sweetly. “Or… hmm.” Her tone turned sly, cutting—
“Maybe it’s sister now?”
The words landed like a slap—casual, cruel, delivered with silk-wrapped steel.
Lysara
Lysara leaned back against the pillows like a queen on her throne. “Sharing a man does that, doesn’t it? Blurs the lines.”
For a long moment, the two women stared at each other—one seething, the other untouchable.
Queen Elira
“You think lying there with your legs open makes you powerful?” She breathed. “You think crawling into his bed—”
Lysara
The words were sharp. Final. “He came to me. Again. And again. And again.”
Elira’s fists clenched. Her face cracked with something bitter and ancient.
Lysara
“You wear pearls and carry titles, Elira. But you’ve never had his obsession. Not like I do.”
Elira’s breath hitched. Then she turned, storming out in a flurry of silks, slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle the frame.
Lysara lay back slowly, the smirk fading from her lips as the ceiling stared down at her like an accusation.
Still, she didn’t regret it.
There was no gloating smile now—only cold certainty.
She had just declared war.
And she would not lose.
Not when her son’s future was now tied to the man whose name shaped the blood in his veins.
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