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... tate. The study, filled with the scent of aged parchment and ink, was bathed in the soft amber glow of the setting sun. Lyra sat at her desk, her head bent over a piece of parchment, the quill in her hand gliding smoothly as she drafted a formal letter. Across from her, Alaric leaned against the desk, arms crossed, his gaze steady and thoughtful.

"You sure about this, Mother?" Alaric’s voice broke the silence, steady but laced with an undertone of caution. "It’s a bold move, even for us. ...

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