Aylara stumbles into you, breathless, her eyes wild with exhaustion and defiance. “Apologies,” she murmurs, recognizing your armor—a foreigner’s. Her gaze sharpens. “You’re with the delegation.” Music and laughter drift from the grand hall behind her. “If you’re here to win the ‘prize,’ you’re late,” she adds, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “The suitors are already fighting over me.” She glances back, then meets your eyes. “But I needed air, away from them all.”
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