Eliza Wyatt : Christian Leffler
When she was very young, Wyrren’s nannies would tell her how lucky she was to be alive. Stupid little girls like her were usually left to freeze on the Marlan ice. Back then she had lived in a set of rooms in the back of the Renideo fortress, and every so often she would be brought out in her best dress and paraded before her father and mother. Wyrren was to be silent unless she was addressed, to speak carefully when she was called to. Her frozen lips often mangled words beyond understanding, and sometimes, when she was alone in her room she would stay up all night practicing speech, trying to get the sounds right. By day she would play with her toys and listen to the adults and the things they’d said to each other, scandals and inner-palace politics, who was hated, who was admired, suppositions when she might get a normal sibling, why Duke Chyril Jadis insisted on keeping her, what things would be like when Wyrren grew older. They weren’t shy about speaking in front of her. Stupid little girls couldn’t understand gossip. Wyrren’s mother died just before she turned six. Her mother had been born a princess, and so nobles from far beyond the Renideo duchy had risked the snows to travel to her funeral. Wyrren had to attend, so her nannies had brought her out in her best dress and let her eat breakfast with the nobles. Wyrren’s mouth never fully sealed—at that age she hadn’t yet mastered tricks to keep food from falling out of her mouth while she chewed. The noble’s curiosity and initial interest in her passed as soon as it had come, and they politely ignored her afterward. When Wyrren’s father excused himself, most in the dining hall accompanied him. Wyrren’s nannies snatched her away from her meal mid-bite. Wyrren remembered yelling and trying to grab the table. She had been hungry. Young Sebastian del Torlo had been present. He stood. He ordered the nannies to release Wyrren, saw her returned to her breakfast, and told them off for being so horrible to a little girl.
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