In the sifted light pouring through the colored stained glass, Evelyra sat gracefully in an armchair carved with floral patterns. The room breathed a hushed solemnity, a harmony between warmth and gravity. Candle flames swayed gently, casting reflections of gold and violet across the stone walls, while the faint scent of melted wax lingered in the air.
Her fine, almost fragile fingers slid with studied slowness over the pages of a brown-leather bound book. Each turn released a soft rustle, subtle yet meaningful in the silence. The golden letters on the cover shimmered like trapped starlight — the mark of an important work, perhaps ancient knowledge, perhaps a secret zealously preserved.
At her side, on a polished mahogany table, rested her cell phone — a faintly anachronistic presence in this medieval atmosphere. Its darkened screen contrasted sharply with the world around it. The headphones, however, still rested on her ears, carrying light music from which only faint murmurs escaped, as if the melody of another world had slipped into this one.
Reaching the final passage, Evelyra paused. Her radiant eyes lingered on the words one last time, etching them into memory. Then, with deliberate solemnity, she closed the book. The dry snap of the cover echoed in the quiet, followed by a soft sigh — half relief, half satisfaction.
Her fingertips caressed the cracked leather in a respectful farewell, as though greeting an old friend. She set the book carefully upon the table, aligning it precisely with the cell phone and the candles, a reflection of her innate order and elegance.
"Well… I think I've reached the end," she whispered, her voice fading into the muffled silence.
With practiced grace, Evelyra rose. Her movements were slow, deliberate, imbued with dignity. Loose waves of golden hair slid across her shoulders with each gesture.
She removed her headphones with care, as if even that small act required composure. For a brief moment she contemplated the modern object in her hands, then tucked it neatly into its case. The soft click of the lid closing rang symbolic, as though sealing away a fragment of another life.
A fleeting radiance passed through her eyes — nostalgia mingled with resolve. With a fluid motion, she slipped the case into her interdimensional space, watching the spot vanish as though ensuring it was truly beyond reach, before returning her attention to the room.
The air seemed to vibrate faintly, charged with an energy only she could sense. Evelyra stood still, a slender silhouette haloed by colored light from the stained glass, poised between shadow and brilliance. In her sovereign calm she resembled a timeless figure — a being at once tied to modernity and rooted in eternity.
Her gaze lingered briefly on the shelves, as though offering silent thanks to the volumes that had shared their secrets. She traced the aged spines, the faded gilding, the cracked bindings that had guarded centuries of knowledge.
At last, with the solemnity of a farewell, she pushed open the heavy oak door. It yielded with a long, groaning sigh, the wood creaking as though reluctant to let her go. A faint breeze slipped in, mingling the familiar musk of old books with the freshness of air beyond.
Behind her, the library remained frozen in silence — an eternal witness to her passage.
The corridor awaited, its walls lined with ancestral portraits. Austere faces, captured in oil and varnish, seemed to follow her with a mixture of curiosity and severity. Her quiet steps barely disturbed the thick carpet, accompanied only by the soft rustle of her attire.
Golden light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows, scattering fragments of radiance across the marble floor. They stretched beneath her feet like a moving carpet of light, as though the very ground acknowledged her stride.
Her path soon led to the monumental staircase. The wrought-iron railing curled in elegant arabesques, wrought with artistic care. Each broad step answered her pace with a gentle echo, as she descended with the measured elegance of a sovereign within her domain.
Arriving on the ground floor, she pushed the great glass door. A gentle breath slipped through the opening, carrying with it the caress of the outside air. A wave of scents brushed against her senses—fresh blossoms, damp grass, and the lingering warmth of the afternoon sun.
Before her stretched the garden, vast and meticulously tended. Rows of white and scarlet roses lined the gravel paths, releasing a perfume both noble and intoxicating. Farther off, cascades of wisteria spilled down the arbors, their violet clusters swaying lazily in the breeze, pouring sweetness into the air. Beds of lilies and irises raised their proud corollas, dazzling in their colors, while lavender bushes quivered under the subtle ballet of bees.
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She advanced toward the stone terrace.
From there, the view embraced the garden's full splendor—a living symphony of colors, shapes, and fragrances. Evelyra paused, half-closed her eyes, and drew in a long breath. The harmony of the place filled her being with a serenity both rare and profound.
A small wrought-iron table awaited her on the terrace, accompanied by two chairs padded with cream-colored cushions. Their curved backs seemed almost to beckon one into repose. She approached and settled gracefully, her delicate hands resting lightly on the armrests, yet her gaze remained fixed on the garden. Her eyes followed the play of light among the leaves, the trembling of flowers in the breeze, and the drifting butterflies—everything appearing like a living painting made solely for her.
Moments later, a servant appeared, her steps muted against the stone slabs. In her gloved hands she bore a polished silver tray, gleaming with fractured light. Upon it rested an exquisite tea service: white porcelain bordered in fine gold, so delicate it seemed too fragile for touch. She moved with silent precision, lowering the tray onto the table with a bow so discreet it resembled a ritual more than a gesture.
Without a word, the servant lifted the steaming teapot and poured amber liquid into a porcelain cup. Instantly, the perfume of jasmine rose, sweet and intoxicating, mingling with the fragrances of the garden. Evelyra's fingers curled around the cup with effortless elegance. Her lips brushed the rim, and the first sip spread warmth through her body, soothing her thoughts and deepening the tranquility of the moment. Every breeze, every rustle of leaves seemed to merge with the delicate flavor sliding down her throat.
The servant's voice, soft yet composed, broke the stillness with deference:
"Mademoiselle, your uncle wishes to see you."
Evelyra lifted her gaze only slightly, her calm unbroken. Her tone was serene, almost indifferent:
"Then tell him I am here."
"As you wish," the servant replied with a bow before withdrawing, her steps vanishing down the garden path. Evelyra returned her attention to her tea, sipping unhurriedly as if the world itself could wait until her cup was emptied.
She placed the cup delicately onto its saucer, the porcelain chiming faintly like a note in the quiet air. Her eyes rose just as a silhouette approached along the flower-bordered path. The man's steps were measured, his figure marked by neat but sober attire that caught glimmers of light as he drew closer.
Upon reaching her, he bowed deeply, almost ceremonially, his voice resonating in gravity:
"It has been a long time, evolving goddess."
Evelyra's brow furrowed faintly. A sigh, tinged with authority, escaped her lips. Her voice cut through the air like a honed blade:
"I told you—stop addressing me like that. You are supposed to be my uncle. Inside these walls, mind your words."
He straightened, embarrassed, his posture rigid with restraint. Sliding into the chair opposite her, he lowered his head slightly.
"Forgive me. I shall make more effort."
Her gaze drifted back to the flower beds swaying in the breeze, as if she sought refuge in their harmony. Her tone softened, laced with curiosity:
"Is everything in order?"
The man hesitated, his face tightening. His lips began to shape a name before correcting himself in a low growl:
"I already reported to Eleanor—grr, I mean, Katarina."
A pause lingered, Evelyra crossing her legs with elegance, her voice resuming, calm yet firm:
"And the elves? Who oversaw that matter?"
His reply came sharp, neutral, yet respectful:
"Shadow took care of it."
Her brow arched ever so slightly, surprise flickering in her eyes though her poise remained intact.
"Hm… I did not expect him to be involved."
Edouard inclined his head, uneasy.
"Nor did I. Still, matters grow tense. Diplomacy between the western elves and Elaria falters. They are withdrawing from the capital, even from certain towns and villages."
Evelyra exhaled with languid indifference, her fingers trailing idly along the chair's armrest.
"Another conflict will not alter my plans," she said in a detached tone.
"I hope your wish will prevail," he murmured, a graceful smile curving his lips as if sealing their exchange in polished courtesy.
But before Evelyra could answer, a voice rang from the terrace entrance. Katarina appeared, cradling a small basket of folded linen. Her arrival was sudden, almost theatrical, her light tone masking the sharp intent hidden in her gaze.
"I trust I am not intruding?"
Evelyra lifted her eyes only slightly, her expression neutral, though the gleam in her gaze betrayed a hint of vigilance. Silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of the wind through the flowers and the birdsong overhead.
Then Katarina advanced, her smile too perfect, her words smooth yet edged:
"So… accomplices, are you?"
Though playful in tone, a murderous aura lingered beneath her mask. Evelyra raised her cup once more, replying with serene poise, as though Katarina's insinuations brushed harmlessly past her:
"What are you suggesting? We are merely speaking."
She sipped her tea, porcelain against her lips a fragile shield against the heavy atmosphere.
Katarina's gaze narrowed. Turning sharply to Edouard, her voice grew cutting:
"I thought you had already left."
He straightened, unwavering, his voice steeped in fervent loyalty:
"I could not depart without praising our divinity."
A sharp laugh slipped from Katarina, mocking.
"Why should I worry? Evelyra prefers women."
The words struck like an arrow loosed into still air. Evelyra, usually unshakable, faltered—her eyes widening, her cheeks burning scarlet. She sputtered, choking on her sip of tea, spraying droplets across the pristine cloth.
"I never said that!" she cried, her voice breaking with embarrassment, her calm shattered.
"If, when we were little, we—"
Before the reckless words could finish, Evelyra shot up, pressing both hands over Katarina's mouth, eyes wide with panic.
"Silence!" she hissed, half-furious, half-incredulous at the absurdity.
No sooner had she fallen back than Edouard rose, hand pressed solemnly to his chest, his fervor unshaken:
"If you desire it, I can become the kind of woman you favor."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Evelyra, face crimson, wavered between outrage and disbelief.
Katarina clicked her tongue, her mocking smile sharp as glass.
"Do you really think appearances matter, Pablo? In the end, you're just a man pretending to be her uncle."
Edouard did not flinch. His tone remained grave, almost worshipful:
"I shall fulfill every desire of my goddess, if only she commands it."
Katarina's pride swelled; her smirk turned triumphant.
"You heard him—yet she already has a promise. Once she discards that useless prince, she and I will be together."
Edouard scowled, his composure cracking:
"You have no chance. I can surpass your beauty, even reshape my very being."
Their voices clashed like steel, jealousy and devotion colliding in the air. The tension thickened, absurd yet heated. Finally, Evelyra rose abruptly, her face set between fury and despair.
"Demons… utterly insane," she thought, withdrawing inward, her mind drifting far from the storm of nonsense swirling around her.