The morning after their stolen kiss was filled with unspoken regrets, and the lingering echo of a forbidden intimacy.
Lyra sat rigidly at the weathered wooden dining table, her posture betraying the turmoil she desperately tried to conceal. Her hands, pale and delicate, were wrapped tightly around the comforting warmth of the tea mug Maelin had packed, a small gesture of care in the swirling vortex of her emotions.
Yet, the tea remained untouched, its fragrant steam doing little to penetrate the icy grip around her heart. Her mind was a relentless projector, replaying the kiss again and again, each stolen moment vivid and visceral, as if her lips still throbbed with the imprint of his.
A few strained, agonizing seconds later, Kyson entered the room. His movements were stiff and unna
