The morning sun warmed the stones of the garden, casting long, elegant shadows across the cobbled path. Birds sang sweetly in the hedges, and the breeze carried the scent of lilies in bloom.
Lyra sat alone on a bench of white marble, hands folded in her lap, back straight despite the weariness in her posture. She watched petals drift down from a flowering vine above, their descent so slow and delicate it almost mocked her.
Everything here was beautiful. Everything here was controlled.
She had not stepped outside the gates of Emberkeep since the riot. She used to always sneak into Brightstead, the surrounding town, but no more. The guards would not permit it. Her maids offered excuses with soft tones and downcast eyes. Her father had said it was for her safety.
But it felt more like a prison than protection.
And he hasn't even come to see me, that jerk. The thought of Lucan stirred annoyance in her chest, unwelcome yet persistent. Two weeks without so much as a visit. He hadn't sent a word nor asked after her, as far as she knew. He was training, but that wasn't an excuse; he still could have at least said hello.
She remembered how he'd spoken to her during her many visits during his recovery. He was blunt, honest, and far too casual. And yet it was comforting. Lucan never spoke in riddles or courtesies. He did not flinch or flatter. He simply was. And for a girl surrounded by careful masks and velvet lies, that had been refreshing.
A maid walked out to her, "Your father seeks you in the war chamber, my lady."
She stood, brushing her gown smooth, and made her way to the war room.
Her father stood inside, suiting up. Steel gleamed in the morning light as a squire fastened his breastplate. A map was spread across the central table, its inked lines crowded with tokens and markers.
"Lyra," Lord Emberlily said, glancing toward her. "Come in."
"You're riding out." Her tone was soft, but there was no question in it.
"I am," he replied. "Ryswald's provocations can no longer be ignored. They've made their intent clear, though they lack the courage to name it openly."
"But there still is still no proof they were responsible," she said.
"There is enough," he replied coldly. "And if they thought Emberkeep would remain idle, they misjudged me gravely."
She stepped closer, her hands clasped at her waist. "And what of me?"
"That is why I sent for you." He turned to face her fully. "The riot made one thing clear, I have been too permissive with your freedom. That will change."
She tensed. "But father, that-"
"You are the heir to House Emberlily," he continued. "You are precious, and you will be treated as such. From this day forward, you will be accompanied at all times by a personal attendant. A man I trust."
"I do not require a nursemaid," she said, more sharply than she intended.
"No," he agreed, "you require a guardian. One who can act if danger comes again. His name is Callum Veyne. He is sworn to my service. He answers only to me."
Before she could respond, he turned back to the map. The conversation, in his mind, was over.
Veyne was waiting in the corridor when she stepped out.
He was older than she expected, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with short, dark hair just beginning to silver at the temples. His manner was crisp, and he bowed the moment she approached.
"My lady," he said. "I am Sir Veyne, appointed to your service by Lord Emberlily. I shall endeavor to remain unobtrusive, but I am to remain by your side."
Lyra regarded him in silence for a long moment.
"You may go," she said quietly.
He did not move. "I regret that I cannot, my lady. My instructions are clear."
"You intend to follow me at all hours?"
"Yes, my lady. Discreetly when I can, but without fail."
Her lips thinned slightly. "Very well."
She turned and walked, her footsteps measured, each step deliberate. Behind her, she heard his boots echo softly on the stone.
A shadow that would not leave her now.
She said nothing further, but inside, she felt the walls closing in, walls no sword could cut down, no gate could open.
But at least... at least the academy will be different.
Two and a half months. It would be a brand new experience, new faces. A chance to make friends other than old nurses and soldiers.
She stopped at the top of the stairway that overlooked the training yard, her gaze distant. The thought brought her little comfort, but it was something. Below, in the dimming light, Lucan trained alone. The yard had long since emptied as the soldiers were preparing to march.
"Would you care to pay him a visit, my lady?" Veyne's voice came from behind. "I've heard you hold some fondness for the boy."
Lyra startled slightly, having forgotten he was there. She drew a breath, regaining her composure.
"No," she said curtly. Then, after a moment, she asked, "Tell me, Sir Veyne, what do you see when you look at Lucan?"
Veyne stepped beside her, his eyes settling on the figure below. He watched in silence for a few seconds before answering.
"He's unpolished," he said. "Rough in form. But I saw his first sparring match today, and in one brief moment, he moved with the clarity of a genius. Just for a heartbeat. It was... remarkable."
Lyra didn't speak at first. Her hands tightened around the railing, knuckles pale.
"Let's go, he's a jerk anyways," she said softly.