LYRA
The morning tasted like iron.
Not literally. But it sat heavy on my tongue as I stared at my breakfast—silver utensils polished to reflect my hollow expression. The eggs were warm. The toast was burnt at the edges. And the tea? Weak. Just like everything else in this house pretending to be perfect.
Mother's eyes skimmed over me the moment I stepped into the dining room.
"You're late."
I wasn't. I'd arrived precisely three minutes before the scheduled time. But late, in her world, meant not early enough to be grateful.
"I had to braid my hair," I said, sliding into my seat without bowing. I used to bow. When I was younger. Before I realized it made no difference.
"You should prepare better," she said, sipping her tea like it held poison and she'd built a tolerance for it.
I stared down at my plate and counted the breaths I could take before she said something else that would slice clean into my day.
One. Two—
"You'll wear the silver today. The dress from the Vale House collection. You'll look sharp. Intimidating. You understand?"
I nodded.
Intimidating. That was her word for untouchable. For don't look too soft or they'll think you're available. For the curse lives in your veins, don't forget it.
She always spoke in codes. But I'd long since cracked them.
By the time I reached the gates of Elarin Academy, my armor was on—lip gloss precise, boots polished, collar crisp. The Vale House dress hugged my frame like it was stitched in warning. Silver silk. Black accents. No color. No warmth.
I caught Nya waiting by the trees.
She wore combat boots under her uniform skirt—something I kept telling her would get her a dress code strike. But she didn't care.
"You look like you're about to bite someone's head off," she said, handing me a steaming to-go cup. "That bad?"
"Worse," I muttered, accepting the coffee like it was medicine.
We walked together across the campus. Everyone noticed us. Not because we were loud or flashy. Just… present. Nya was tall and whip-sharp, always ready with something sarcastic. Me? I didn't need to say anything. People had already filled in the blanks with whatever myth made them feel safer about not knowing the truth.
Boys whispered. Girls glared.
"You know Callen is going to try again today, right?" Nya said as we approached the east wing. "He brought chocolates. Real ones."
"He can eat them himself."
"Honestly, though, how long do you think you can keep playing Ice Queen without someone cracking through?"
I stopped walking.
"I'm not playing," I said quietly.
Nya glanced at me, expression sobering. She knew. Not everything. But enough to stop pushing.
We got through the first two classes with nothing too dramatic. I ignored the stares. The whispers. The accidental shoulder bumps that weren't so accidental. Every hallway I walked was a minefield, but I'd mastered the choreography—smile small, speak less, walk like nothing could touch me.
It worked. Until it didn't.
Callen intercepted me by my locker, all boyish confidence and cologne that smelled like arrogance.
"Lyra," he said with a grin. "Thought maybe we could talk after class. I'm working on that advanced rune translation, and I could use someone brilliant."
"Ask Professor Merrick."
He laughed like I'd told a joke. "Come on. We could go somewhere off-campus. Quiet."
"I don't do quiet," I said. "And I don't do you."
He blinked, stunned, and tried to recover with a smirk. "That's cold."
"Good. Stay warm somewhere else."
I left him standing there, stunned and scorned.
The problem was, for every Callen I shut down, three more popped up. Some of them genuinely curious. Most of them entitled. None of them understanding.
I wasn't untouchable by choice.
By the time the day ended, I was done. Emotionally frayed, fingers clenched around my bag strap like it was keeping me tethered.
When I got home, the silence of the house was worse than the noise at school. Everything was too perfect. Too polished. My mother's presence hung in the air even when she wasn't in the room.
I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my boots, and made it halfway up the stairs before I heard her voice.
"You embarrassed a boy named Callen today."
I turned slowly. She stood at the top of the stairs like a statue, arms crossed, face a portrait of disapproval.
"Did he cry?" I asked flatly.
"Lyra."
"No, really. Did he cry? Should I write him an apology in glitter ink?"
"This isn't a joke. You're building enemies where you could build alliances. Affection is a tool."
I laughed. Bitter and short.
"I'm not a tool, Mother."
Her jaw tightened. "You are whatever we need you to be."
That was it. The thread that finally snapped.
I stalked past her, shoving my door open and slamming it behind me hard enough to rattle the frame. My hands shook as I threw my bag against the wall. I stood in the center of the room, rage and sorrow boiling under my skin, and all I wanted was to scream.
But I didn't.
I never screamed. I never cried. I never let them win.
Instead, I sat on the floor. Cross-legged. Breathing like it could anchor me.
I stared at the framed portrait above my desk—my great-grandmother, the one whose choices had cursed us all. Her eyes were glassy in the painting. Cold. Like she knew what she'd done and didn't regret it.
"Why did you do it?" I whispered.
No answer.
Of course not.
But my curse was louder than her silence. I could feel it, coiled beneath my skin like a second soul. A thing that waited to punish me for loving too deeply. For caring too much. For wanting anything soft or kind or warm.
There would be no boys for me. No first kisses. No whispered promises under moonlight.
I couldn't even dream it without risking blood.
Love is treason. Not just to the Consuls. To my very bloodline.
And yet… sometimes I wanted. Desperately.
A knock on the door.
I didn't answer.
"Lyra?" Nya's voice.
I opened it.
"How did you even get in—?"
"Kitchen window. I brought snacks."
She walked in like the house didn't try to eat people whole.
"I told you to stop breaking in."
"I brought snacks."
"You said that already."
She raised an eyebrow. "And yet, you didn't say thank you."
I shook my head and smiled, just a little.
We sat together on the bed, silence stretching easy between us. She didn't ask for explanations. She just handed me a cupcake and turned on some ridiculous show I wouldn't admit to liking.
That was the thing about Nya. She never demanded my softness. She just made space for it.
When she left—again through the kitchen window—I lay in bed for a long time. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the quiet.
I thought about all the things I couldn't say. The secrets I couldn't share. The truth carved into my bones.
I thought about the shadows moving beneath our world—the ones no one spoke of. The ones I wasn't supposed to know existed.
And somewhere, far beyond the walls of my bedroom, I could feel something stir.
Something old.
Something watching.
Something that knew my name.