Nyra returned home just as the city’s night lanterns flickered to life. The warmth of the small household contrasted sharply with the weight of the day’s events. 

The scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat filled the air as her mother set the table, and her father—Commander Daelus, one of Velmor’s strongest warriors and the man in charge of its army—removed his armor with a tired sigh.

They sat down to eat, but the conversation quickly turned to the only thing anyone in Velmor could think about.

Her father took a deep breath, shaking his head as he spoke.

“Unbelievable. Some reckless fool actually had the audacity to mock the Son of Medusa—Raezel. Do they not understand? Do they have a death wish? The entire kingdom of Velmor was one wrong word away from being erased!”

Her mother nodded grimly. “It’s madness. How could anyone be so blind to the danger? Raezel may have inherited Medusa’s terrifying power, but that girl—whoever she was—treated him like some common traveler. Does she not value her life?”

Nyra chewed her food slowly, silent. A smirk crept across her face as she listened to her parents unknowingly roast her alive.

Then, as her father took a sip of wine and her mother sliced through a piece of meat, she casually placed her spoon down and said:

“It was me.”

The room fell silent.

Her father stopped mid-sip.

Her mother’s knife froze in mid-air.

They turned their heads toward her in slow, stiff movements, like they’d just seen a ghost crawl out from the mashed potatoes.

“What do you mean… it was you?” her father finally asked, voice hesitant.

Nyra leaned back, stretching her arms. “I mean exactly what I said. The girl who spent the entire day with Raezel—the one who casually talked to him, the one who mocked him for his pretty looks, the one who nearly caused the fall of Velmor?”

She tapped her own chest, like she was receiving a medal.

“That was me, Father.”
She said it like she’d just been knighted for heroism.

Her mother dropped her fork.

Her father’s face turned pale, as if someone had just whispered his funeral arrangements in his ear. He gripped the table, looking like he might pass out.

“You… You—!” he stammered.

Nyra, enjoying the panic, smiled sweetly.
“Oh, and by the way, I invited him for breakfast tomorrow.”

The silence that followed could have cracked stone.

Her father shot up from his chair.

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

Her mother gasped in horror. “Nyra, are you insane?! We’re just soldiers! Just people! How can we host someone like him? What if he takes offense at something? What if this makes Medusa angry—what if she thinks we were unworthy hosts for her son?! Do you know what will happen to us? WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO VELMOR?!”

Nyra stood, pushing her chair back with all the dramatic flair of a queen announcing a decree.

“He’s coming whether you like it or not. Best you prepare something nice.”

And with that, she turned and strolled to her room, leaving her parents in stunned, horrified silence.

Her father slumped back into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

“We are doomed.”

***

The morning light crept through the small window of Nyra’s home as she, still groggy from the previous night’s dramatic revelations, got dressed.

In the kitchen, her parents worked in panicked silence. Her mother chopped vegetables with a death grip. Her father stirred the stew like it had personally betrayed him.

“I don’t understand it,” her mother muttered. “Why would someone like him—Raezel, the Son of Medusa—want to come to our house? We’re not royalty. We’re not even respected.”

“Maybe he forgot about Nyra,” her father muttered, voice thin with hope.

“Maybe he’s allergic to common food,” her mother added quickly. “Maybe he got lost. Maybe he was joking.”

“Maybe we hallucinated the whole thing.”

They both nodded, trying to manifest reality through pure denial.

“He’s not coming,” her mother said firmly. “He’s far too important. I’m sure of it.”

The tension in the room faded ever so slightly.

Until…

A soft knock came at the door.

Her mother froze.

Her father’s ladle paused mid-stir.

Nyra, who had been leaning casually against the wall like none of this concerned her, raised an eyebrow.

The knock came again. A little louder this time.

Her parents exchanged a look of pure panic.

Nyra pushed herself off the wall and smirked. “I’ll get it.”

She walked to the door, taking her time with each step. Behind her, her parents looked like two statues caught mid-scream.

When she opened the door, her smile faltered—just a little.

Standing in front of her was Raezel, as poised and unreadable as ever.

And beside him, arms crossed and eyes like twin daggers, stood the ever-silent Nihaga.

Nyra blinked twice, then tilted her head. “Well, well. I guess you did show up.”

She said it like he was a classmate she’d invited to a bonfire—not the son of a living goddess.

Raezel didn’t reply right away. He looked at her with a strange mix of amusement and detachment, his presence thick enough to bend the air.

Nihaga, though silent, gave a single nod—one of respect, or maybe warning.

From the kitchen, her parents watched with wide eyes, clutching utensils like lifelines.

“Are you going to keep us waiting out here all morning?” Raezel finally asked, his voice cool and calm—with just the faintest hint of amusement.

Nyra stepped aside with a casual bow of her head.

“Come on in,” she said. “I’m sure the stew will be ready in no time.”

Raezel and Nihaga stepped inside.

The atmosphere shifted immediately. The warmth of the home dimmed as if the gods themselves had entered.

“Don’t mind them,” Nyra said, nodding at her frozen parents. “They’re just… in shock.”

Her father finally found his voice, just enough to stammer:

“P-Prince Raezel… it’s an honor.”

He bowed low, hands trembling.