Lyria didn’t sleep well that night. Even though Aertis told her to let the King come back to her, she couldn’t help but wander out onto her balcony, as if by sheer force of will she could force the King out onto his, blow the linens draped around it away with a breeze, and demand that he love her.
But of course she could not, and instead she stood alone in the darkness, shivering in spite of the warm summer air.
She slept poorly, her dreams a confusing mess of whirling color and sound she couldn’t make out. One recurring scene, over and over, flashed through her subconscious mind. A sword, stuck deep into the ground, and a shadowy figure standing several paces away, throwing a crown as if playing a game, trying to catch the golden loop of the crown on the handle of the sword.
Then her
