"Duke Neonidas, do such sharp words not cast a shadow over the joy of your victory?"
The voice of Duchess Lyranna echoed through the courtyard, drawing a low grunt from Duke Draevos.
Neonidas turned toward the duchess with a faint smile on his lips. Her sharp wit and measured words had effortlessly neutralized Draevos's unfinished move. Lyranna always moved like a shadow—she wielded words in battle rather than a sword.
"Duchess Lyranna," Neonidas said, adding a touch of politeness to his tone. "The joy of victory is only lasting if built upon a solid foundation. And foundations are sometimes reinforced with sharp words—other times, with steel."
For a brief moment, Lyranna's eyes examined Neonidas before she dipped her head slightly. "Then, I hope you are certain that this foundation will keep you standing tomorrow, Duke Neonidas. After all, in the palace, it is not steel, but poisonous whispers that rule."
