She woke to the smell of something burned.
Ash. Smoke.
It clung to her skin, even though the sheets were clean.
They told her a week had passed.
Seven days lost to healing spells, bad dreams, and the kind of silence that made her chest feel too tight.
Her body pain had mostly subsided.
But something inside her still felt broken.
The healers said she was lucky.
She didn't feel lucky.
They told her the fire hadn't touched her heart. That she'd be fine. That nothing was lost.
But something was lost. Even if they didn't see it.
Her hands shook when the lanterns flickered.
Her breath stopped when someone lit a hearth.
Even the soft sound of a candle catching fire made her flinch.
And Lucian… hadn't come.
She only asked once. Her voice was scratchy and small.
"Did he visit?"
The servant froze. Then smiled too quickly. "No, Your Highness. The prince was sent away."
That was all they said.
Training, they called it.
Reflection. Discipline. Restoration.
But Lyra had lived in this palace long enough to know the truth hidden in pretty words.
Punishment.
They had sent the crown prince to the Borderlands.
Because of her.
Because of his actions.
Because of what they did together.
She didn't blame him.
Not really.
She remembered that morning.
They were training. Cold air, wooden swords, tired feet.
They were mad. Shouting. Shoving.
She grabbed his sleeve. He pushed her shoulder.
They fell to the ground in a tangle of elbows and loud words.
Then..
Lucian stood up. His eyes wide, his hand shaking.
A flash of blue fire.
The smell of her own clothes burning.
Her scream was loud, sharp, and awful.
She hadn't meant to make him that angry.
He hadn't meant to hurt her.
But meaning something didn't make it go away.
In this strange, half-shared family of princes and princesses and old laws, love never stopped the rules.
The door creaked.
She didn't look up. She stayed curled on her side, her back sore and stiff, her fingers twisted in the blanket.
Soft steps came closer. A tray clinked against the table.
"I brought peaches," Thalia said. Her voice was soft, like she didn't want to wake a ghost. "And a book. Not one of the boring ones. You've had enough of bandages and royal history."
Lyra's mouth twitched. "You're not wrong."
Thalia pulled a thin book from under her arm. The cover was creased, the spine nearly broken.
The Fire Between Us.
"It's sad," she said, hesitating. "And there's… a lot of kissing. You might hate it."
Lyra blinked at her. "Then why bring it?"
Thalia gave a faint smile. "Because sometimes sad stories help. And because I thought you might want something that isn't about pain."
She sat beside her on the bed, careful not to jostle her.
They sat there, quiet, as golden light slid across the floor.
The room smelled like lavender and healing cream. Everything looked peaceful.
But inside Lyra, the storm hadn't stopped.
Thalia's eyes drifted to the bandage on Lyra's shoulder. Gently, she reached out.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered.
Lyra hesitated. "No. Not really. It's just… a scar now."
"That's all?"
Lyra looked down. Her voice was barely a breath.
"He didn't mean to."
"I know," Thalia said, her fingers brushing the edge of the blanket.
"I saw his face," Lyra whispered. "Right after. He looked so scared. Like he didn't know what he'd done. Like the fire wasn't even his."
She blinked fast. "But I don't think Father saw that. I think he just saw… power out of control. A prince who couldn't stop himself."
Thalia nodded, slow. "Maybe. But… Father still did what he had to."
She looked away. "He had to send him somewhere."
The Borderlands weren't safe. Not for anyone.
And definitely not for a prince.
"But it's not because he hates him," Thalia said. "He's trying to help him. Lucian's strong. But strong and wild is dangerous."
Lyra picked at the blanket. "Do you think he hates me now?"
"I don't know," Thalia said softly. "Do you hate him?"
Lyra's eyes stung. "No." She swallowed. "I still love him."
Thalia didn't say anything. But she held her hand, small fingers curling into Lyra's.
That night, Queen Elara came.
She didn't speak at first. She just sat down on the bed and ran her fingers through Lyra's hair, gentle and quiet, like she used to when Lyra had nightmares about monsters in the dark.
"You've always been brave," the Queen whispered. "But you don't have to be right now. Not alone."
Lyra's voice cracked. "Will he come back?"
"Yes," the Queen said. "When he's ready. When he can control the fire inside him. When he understands what he almost lost."
"Why did Father send him away?" Lyra asked.
"Because he had to," Elara said. "Lucian isn't just our son. He's the crown prince. If he can't control his power, he can't be king."
"But… he's just a boy."
"So were you," the Queen said softly, brushing hair from Lyra's face. "When you stood up to him. When you lived. We don't always get to stay little. Sometimes… the fire decides for us."
Lyra closed her eyes. "Do you forgive him?"
Elara was quiet for a long time.
"I do," she said at last. "Because he's my son. And because forgiveness isn't forgetting. It's still loving someone, even when it hurts."
She cupped Lyra's cheek and kissed her brow.
"Just like I love you."
Lyra's voice was tiny. "But I'm not really your daughter."
Elara's voice trembled as she whispered, "You are, Lyra. In every way that matters."
And for the first time since the fire, Lyra believed her.
Not because it was magic.
But because the Queen had never made love something Lyra had to earn.
The days passed like slow rivers.
Her body healed. The scar on her back faded to a pale silver line. The pain grew quiet.
But something inside her stayed sharp.
So Lyra worked.
She studied history, court manners, and maps.
She trained tirelessly, holding swords until her hands ached.
She practiced curtsies, posture, voice.
She made herself into something stronger.
Servants whispered about the girl who never let the candles go out.
Who built towers of scrolls around her like walls.
Who asked for harder books, longer drills, sharper blades.
She wasn't born a princess.
But she would become one.
Scar and all.