Sybil’s POV
Kyrell's hazel eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes me feel seen in a way I haven't been in years—as Sybil, whoever she is beneath all the titles and tragedies.
"I'm here," he says, softer this time, and I believe him. I believe…
The door bursts open with such force it slams against the wall. A young woman strides in like a summer storm given human form—all wild energy and complete disregard for propriety.
She looks around my age, maybe a little bit younger, with dark curls escaping from pins that were clearly losing a battle they never had a chance of winning. A bright and wide hazel eyes, tall and lean grace in a light green dress with ink stains on her sleeves.
She’s already talking before she's even fully through the doorway, and the first thought as I see her is that she looks like a female version of… "Kyrell! Father said you were— Oh."
She stops mid-sentence, her eyes go wide as she takes in the scene before her.
Me, sitting in the chair with tears still wet on my face. Kyrell, kneeling at my feet with his hands cupping my cheeks. The charged intimacy of the moment hanging in the air like smoke.
Kyrell jerks back as if I've burned him and rises so quickly he nearly stumbles, putting distance between us with movements that are almost comically abrupt. His hands drop to his sides, then cross over his chest, then drop again as if he can't figure out what to do with them.
"Maren." His voice carries a warning that's thoroughly undermined by the flush creeping up his neck. "What are you doing here, sister?"
"Father said you were escorting our guest, who I’ve heard so much about, to her chambers, and I thought I should come say hello properly…" Maren looks between us with barely contained glee, "instead of lurking in doorways trying to catch glimpses like some curious child."
There's affection in Kyrell's exasperated sigh, the kind that comes from years of loving someone despite. Or perhaps because of their complete inability to follow social conventions.
"This is my younger sister, Lady Maren," he says to me, his tone shifting into something more formal even as warmth colors the edges. "Maren, this is…"
"The mysterious woman my brother rescued and has been keeping hidden like a precious secret?" Maren interrupts cheerfully.
She moves further into the room with complete confidence, as if she hasn't just destroyed whatever moment was building between Kyrell and me.
"Yes, I gathered that much. I've been dying to meet you properly!"
"Maren," Kyrell says again, more warning in his voice now. "Perhaps you should…"
But she's already dropping onto the floor beside my chair with complete disregard for her expensive dress or what's appropriate for a lady of her station. She settles into a casual sprawl that would give any etiquette instructor an apoplexy, all unguarded warmth and genuine interest.
"Don't mind him," she says to me with a conspiratorial smile. "He gets all formal and protective when he's flustered. It's actually quite entertaining to watch, believe me."
"I am not flustered," Kyrell says, which would be more convincing if his ears weren't still red.
Maren waves him off like she's swatting a particularly persistent fly. "Of course not, brother dear. You're the very picture of composure. That's why you practically leaped across the room when I came in."
Despite the tears still drying on my cheeks, despite the overwhelming revelations crushing me, despite the breakdown I just had, I find myself almost smiling.
There's something incredibly refreshing about Maren's complete lack of pretense.
"I apologize for my sister's manners," Kyrell says to me, though affection softens the words. "Or rather, her complete lack thereof."
"I prefer to think of it as selective application of courtesy," Maren counters brightly.
She turns her full attention to me, and I see genuine curiosity in her hazel eyes beneath the irreverent smile.
"I'm Kyrell's favorite pain in the ass, though he'll never admit it. The younger sister he keeps trying and fortunately failing completely to marry off to anyone who'll take me."
"First of all, watch yourself, young lady. You’re not in the presence of your favorite stable boys," Kyrell mutters. "And second, that's because you've rejected every suitable match in two kingdoms."
"They were boring," Maren says with a dramatic shudder. "Can you imagine spending your entire life with someone whose most interesting quality is how many horses they own?"
My almost-smile becomes a real one. Small and tentative, but genuine.
Maren notices immediately, her expression brightening. "There! See, Kyrell? She's not made of glass. She can handle a little irreverence."
"She's also the Crown Princess Sybil of Ziana and rightful heir to the throne of our kingdom. So as I said, sister dear—watch yourself."
The transformation in Maren is immediate. Her irreverence falters completely, replaced by something that looks like genuine shock. She starts to rise, clearly intending to execute a proper curtsy, her expression suddenly weighted by the reality of true royalty sitting before her.
"Your Majesty, I apologize, I didn't realize… I shouldn't have been so informal, I—"
"Stop." I reach out quickly, catching her hand before she can stand fully. "Please. Better without formalities. I've only just learned who I am, I'm not ready for bowing and protocol and people treating me like I'm made of porcelain."
Maren freezes, looking between me and Kyrell with uncertainty. "But you're a princess. There are rules about…"
"Rules I don't know and can't follow yet," I say firmly. "So we'll skip all of that. Just... talk to me like I'm a person."
The relief that floods Maren's face is palpable. She settles back onto the floor with renewed enthusiasm.
"Oh, thank gods. All those rules are so exhausting… Which fork to use for which course, how low to bow based on rank, whether you're supposed to speak first or wait to be addressed. So much remembering… My head aches just thinking about it."
"Mine too," I admit. "I can barely remember my own name half the time these days, let alone proper etiquette for every situation."
"See, Kyrell?" Maren gestures at me triumphantly. "She understands. Not everyone wants to spend their entire life worrying about whether they're holding their teacup at the correct angle."
Kyrell shakes his head but doesn't argue. He moves toward the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. The warning in his expression has faded into something softer, more indulgent.
"So…" Maren says, turning back to me with undisguised curiosity.
The conversation unfolds from there, stretching into hours without me noticing.
Maren asks questions that should be invasive but somehow aren't. Questions about my life at Reaton, about what it was like being married to the Crown Prince. I even told her about my twins.
"You have thoughts about that, I see," I say dryly.
"Oh, I have many thoughts." Maren's eyes flash with righteous fury. "Kyrell made me promise not to share most of them in polite company. Something about language unbecoming of a lady. But between us? I think that Countess is a complete b—"
"Maren," Kyrell warns from the doorway.
She sighs dramatically. "See what I mean? Can't say anything truthfull!"
Despite everything, I laugh. It's small and brief, but it's real, and it surprises me almost as much as it seems to surprise Kyrell. I see him straighten slightly, his expression shifting into something I can't quite read.
For the first time since my sons were stolen, someone is treating me like a regular person rather than a tragedy to be pitied. The levity Maren brings—her bluntness calling my enemies "bastards," her irreverent observations about court politics, her complete normalcy—is unexpectedly healing.
Near the door, Kyrell watches us with his arms still crossed, but his expression has gone soft. I catch him looking at Maren with something like gratitude, then at me with something I can't quite name.
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