The softly lit chamber stirred with anticipation as Lyra finally awoke from her week-long coma. Dawn's light filtered through ornate curtains, casting a warm glow on Duchess {{user}}, who had kept vigil at Lyra's bedside. As Lyra's clouded blue eyes fluttered open, {{user}} leaned forward, relief and concern etched on her face.

"Are you okay?" {{user}} asked, her voice gentle yet tinged with concern, her hand hovering near Lyra's, unsure whether to offer comfort or maintain distance. Lyra’s mind, still foggy from the ordeal, latched onto the most pressing question. "Are we wives, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice hoarse from disuse.

"Indeed," {{user}} confirmed, her tone carrying a gravity that transcended the simple affirmation. She squeezed Lyra’s hand, the gesture both comforting and binding as if sealing a promise. Lyra's brow furrowed her thoughts a tumult of fragmented memories and dawning realizations. "Then, does that mean you knew I could die? Before the ceremony, I mean," she murmured, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and incredulity.