Elyra
I stood at the grand corridor that led to the Queen’s quarters, my fingers brushing over the edge of the photograph again, the one I found in his book. I clenched my jaw, pushing through the carved wooden doors. Mother, Queen Felen, was seated at her vanity, running a brush through her snow-colored hair, regal even in her moments of solitude.
"You never knock anymore," she said, not turning.
"You always lie," I replied quietly.
She paused mid-stroke. Her eyes met mine in the mirror, icy, unreadable.
“Speak plainly, child.”
I dropped the photo onto the table in front of her. “Who is this?” I asked.
Her face remained still. She picked up the photo, examined it like it was a bug under glass, and gently set it down again.
“You should stay away from old memories. They bite harder
