CHLORENDIA
The stable slled of hay and horse, with a faint trace of leather and the earthy scent of the animals themselves. It was calm, the kind of calm that settles after the chaos of a busy day. The setting sun filtered through the wooden slats, casting warm, golden beams across the stalls. I hadn’t planned to spend my evening here, but Lylda had practically dragged , claiming he had sothing to show .
Now, I stood with my arms crossed, staring at him as he fumbled with sothing behind his back. "Lylda, if you don’t hurry up and show , I swear I’ll—"
"Alright, alright!" he said, cutting off. With a flourish, he brought out a small hand poppet.
I blinked. "That’s it? You wanted to show ... a doll?"
He shot a sheepish smile, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink. "It’s not just a doll. Watch this."
Before I could retort, he slipped his hand into the poppet and began moving it. But what caught off guard wasn’t the movent—it was the voice that followed.
"Well, hello there, my lady!" the poppet "spoke," its tone cheery and full of personality.
I stared, my arms dropping to my sides. "Wait... what?"
Lylda grinned, clearly pleased with my reaction.
I squinted at him, trying to catch the trick. "Did you... did you enchant this thing?"
He burst into laughter, the sound warm and genuine, and for a mont, I forgot to be annoyed. His laughter stained his cheeks even redder, and he shook his head. "No, no. Sadly, the goddess didn’t bless with such traits."
I narrowed my eyes at him, stepping closer to inspect the poppet. "Hand it over."
He hesitated for a second but eventually held it out. I snatched it from him, turning it over in my hands and looking for any signs of magic—runes, hidden seams, anything. But there was nothing unusual about it.
"Do it again," I demanded, handing it back to him.
Lylda chuckled softly, slipping the poppet back onto his hand. "As you wish, my lady."
The poppet ca to life again, its tiny head nodding, its arms flailing in an exaggerated wave. "Greetings, mighty Chlorendia! How does the fairest warrior of the land fare today?"
My jaw dropped slightly as I watched his performance. His lips didn’t move—not even a twitch. The voice seed to co out of nowhere, and it was as if the poppet had a personality all its own.
"Alright," I said, stepping closer, "how are you doing that?"
"Doing what?" he asked, feigning innocence.
"Talking! I can’t see your lips move."
"That’s the point," he told , smirking.
I frowned, unconvinced. Without thinking, I leaned in closer, pressed my thumb against his lips and slid it slightly, trying to feel for movent. "Okay, do it again," I instructed, my gaze locked on his mouth, determined to solve the mystery.
But he didn’t do it.
Instead, he froze. His eyes widened slightly, and I noticed how his breath hitched.
"Why aren’t you—" I began, but my words caught in my throat when I realized how close we were. My thumb was still pressed against his lips, and our faces were re inches apart. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, and the way he looked at —wide-eyed and unsure—made my stomach twist in ways I didn’t entirely understand.
It hit all at once: how intimate this looked, how I was practically on his laps, leaning so close I could feel the warmth radiating from him. My own cheeks burned as I quickly pulled my hand away and stood up, nearly stumbling in my haste to put so distance between us.
Lylda looked away, raising the back of his hand to his mouth as if to shield it from view. His gaze flickered sideways, his usual nervousness amplified tenfold.
"Uh, sorry," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.
"It’s fine," he mumbled, though he still wouldn’t et my eyes.
An awkward silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft snorts and shuffling of the horses in their stalls. I ran a hand through my hair, avoiding his gaze as I tried to compose myself.
"Well," I said after a mont, forcing so levity into my tone, "I guess you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?"
He finally glanced at , a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I suppose so."
I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. "Alright, I should probably head back before soone starts looking for . Don’t stay out here too late."
"Yes, my lady," he said, bowing his head slightly.
As I turned to leave, I couldn’t help but glance back at him. He was still sitting there, the poppet resting limply in his hand, his face contemplative. There was sothing about him in that mont—sothing quieter, softer.
Shaking off the thought, I walked out of the stable, the soft crunch of gravel beneath my boots the only sound accompanying . The stable’s warm, earthy scent faded into the cool freshness of the evening, and I wrapped my arms around myself, more out of habit than from the chill. My thoughts lingered on Lylda, his flushed cheeks, and that unexpected mont we shared. It had left rattled, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.
The manor lood ahead, its stone walls illuminated by the soft glow of torches. The walk back to my chambers felt unusually long, every step an opportunity for my mind to replay the events in the stable. I shook my head, as if that would sohow clear the mories away, but they clung to stubbornly.
Just as I reached the main corridor leading to the living quarters, I heard the faint echo of footsteps. My instincts imdiately sharpened, and I straightened, brushing stray strands of hair from my face. The dim light revealed a familiar figure, and my stomach tightened when I recognized my father’s imposing silhouette.
He walked with a deliberate pace, his cane tapping against the polished stone floor in a steady rhythm. Even in the dim light, his presence was commanding, his posture rigid and his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Father," I greeted, bowing my head slightly as we crossed paths.
"Chlorendia." His voice was deep, clipped, and carried an air of authority that made my shoulders stiffen. He slowed his steps, his sharp gaze locking onto mine. "Where have you been?"
"I was—" I hesitated, debating whether to lie. But what would be the point? He would see through it imdiately. "I was at the stables."
"The stables," he repeated, his tone carefully neutral. "And why were you at the stables?"
I felt my throat tighten under his scrutiny. "I was checking on the horses," I replied, keeping my tone steady. "I needed a mont to clear my head."
He studied for a long mont, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You’ve been spending quite a bit of ti with that servant boy, Lylda."
I stiffened.
Of course, he would notice. My father noticed everything, especially when it ca to things he disapproved of.
I gulped down air as I thought of what to say.
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