The palace was made of marble, gold, and lies.
Lyra could feel them in the walls. Hear them in the steps of the servants.
The whispers, the forced smiles, the fear buried beneath layers of etiquette and perfume.
But none of it touched her.
She was not part of this world.
She was a shadow wearing a name that was not hers.
---
Iyra.
That's what they called her now. A name of weakness. A leash. A lie.
They didn't know she remembered everything.
The smoke.
The fire.
Her father's last roar as the Emperor's blade pierced his heart.
She was seven.
Too small to fight. Too slow to save anyone.
She had crawled from under her mother's corpse—burned, choking, screaming.
And now, twelve years later, she stood inside the gilded walls of the same empire that had slaughtered her clan.
---
I swore I would make them feel it.
Not just death. Not justice. Pain.
The kind that festers. The kind that breaks the soul, not the body.
The kind they gave me.
---
She watched the prince from the shadows for weeks.
He was too quiet. Too distant.
Too perfect.
But that was how monsters always looked, wasn't it? Polished, elegant, untouchable.
Just like his father.
---
Her orders were simple. Pretend. Learn the layout. Get close.
But when she first entered his chamber, when her eyes met his—
Something inside her snapped.
He didn't recognize me.
He didn't even flinch.
As if he didn't know what he'd done.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she bowed.
---
She didn't know when the idea came.
Maybe it was in the gardens, when she saw how the guards bowed to him like he was divine.
Maybe it was when she saw how his father smiled at him, with pride—the same man who smiled while her parents burned.
That's when she realized:
Killing the prince would be too easy.
But breaking him… piece by piece?
That would make the Emperor bleed where it hurt most.
---
She tested him slowly.
A cracked cup. A scalding cloth. A missing blade.
He never reacted. Not even once.
Just like a doll.
It infuriated her.
She wanted him to yell. To strike her. To curse her in that smooth, noble tongue.
But he didn't.
He only looked at her with those distant eyes…
Like he wanted to understand her.
Why?
What are you hiding behind that face, prince?
Why don't you hate me back?
---
She remembered the first time he spoke to her.
"Where are you from?"
She had nearly laughed. A short, sharp, bitter sound.
You burned my home to the ground, she had wanted to say.
You walked through the ashes of my childhood with blood on your boots.
Instead, she said:
"South."
Let him guess. Let him wonder. Let him suffer with doubt.
Because he didn't know.
That was the part that made her feel insane.
He didn't even know what he was guilty of.
---
But I do. I remember all of it.
Her father's voice, shaking as he shielded her with his wings.
Her mother's lullaby, drowned out by screaming.
The smell of burning demon flesh and the laughter of human soldiers.
And at the front of them all?
Emperor Kael.
His blade raised. His command absolute.
His voice declaring victory as her world died beneath his boots.
---
Now, his son—his only son—sat in a tower, untouched, worshipped, adored.
And Lyra was the only one who could reach him.
---
You're going to feel everything I felt.
And when I'm done…
When I've broken your mind, your pride, your heart…
Then I'll kill you.
And when your father weeps for the first time in his wretched life—
I'll know I won.
---
She didn't care if the prince was different.
Didn't care if he didn't remember.
Didn't care if he looked at her like he was lost and in love and quietly dying.
Because she remembered.
And she would never forget.
-----
Lyra watched him.
Day after day, hour after hour.
The prince was always calm. Polite. Polished.
Every movement was measured, every word clipped and quiet.
Too perfect.
It made her skin crawl.
He's pretending.
He has to be.
No child of that Emperor could be this quiet, this… emotionless.
Not after everything.
Not after what they did.
---
She started small.
The first time, it was a tray of tea she'd intentionally knocked from the table.
She expected him to shout. To demand punishment.
To strike her.
That's what nobles did, wasn't it?
But he just looked at her.
Not even angry. Just… tired.
Like he was used to disappointment. Or maybe… too numb to care.
He wiped his sleeve and said, "It's fine. You can go."
She left without bowing. Just to spite him.
He said nothing.
---
The second time, she replaced his favorite cloak with one stitched in coalsilk — a rare enchanted fabric that caused itching and heat when worn.
She watched as he dressed.
Waited for the irritation to show. A scratch. A complaint.
Nothing.
He wore it the whole day without comment.
Doesn't he feel anything?
Or is he just too proud to show weakness?
She didn't know which thought irritated her more.
---
The third time, she did something worse.
She poured a few drops of soul-deep toxin into his drink — not lethal, but sharp.
Enough to cause pain. Hallucinations. Nausea.
She waited outside his chamber.
Minutes passed.
An hour.
Two.
No alarm. No cry for help.
She peeked through the carved glass windows.
He was sitting on the floor, staring at his hands.
Eyes blank.
Expression unreadable.
Not twitching. Not shaking.
Just… still.
Why won't you break?
---
The silence made her angry.
Furious.
She wanted to see him crack.
To scream. To curse. To beg.
She wanted to see the prince — the Emperor's son — finally bleed.
But he didn't.
Not physically. Not even emotionally.
It felt like hitting a wall made of glass — no cracks, no sound, just endless reflection.
And yet... part of her hated that even more than if he had fought back.
---
One night, she returned to his chamber again — under the guise of late-night cleaning.
He was alone, seated at the window, watching the moonless sky.
She stepped forward, silently, until they were only a few feet apart.
He didn't turn around.
"You always come when the moon is gone," he said softly.
Her heart stopped for half a breath.
He noticed.
He's watching too.
She hated that.
She hated that he was aware. That he had always been aware.
That he let her be near him. Alone. Vulnerable.
Was it pride?
Was it stupidity?
Or...
Does he actually not care if he dies?
The thought chilled her more than the winter air.
---
"Why don't you stop me?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer. Her voice dropped.
"Are you afraid of me?"
Still, nothing.
"Or do you think this is penance?"
Now he turned to look at her.
And for the first time, his eyes were not calm.
They were sad.
"I don't know what I did," he said.
His voice wasn't defensive. Or cold. Or smug.
Just honest.
"But if this makes you feel better… then do it."
"You can hurt me."
"I won't stop you."
---
The words hit her like a blade between the ribs.
She stared at him, lips parted. Words caught in her throat.
For a moment—just a breath—she saw him.
Not the prince.
Not the heir to the man who destroyed her life.
But a boy.
Alone. Quiet. Lost.
No.
No, don't look at me like that.
Don't make me question this.
> Don't make me—
Her fingers curled into fists.
"This isn't forgiveness," she said. "This is a warning."
"I will make you suffer."
He nodded.
"I know."
---
She turned and left before her hands could shake.
Behind her, the prince didn't move.
---
In her chambers that night, she stared at her reflection.
Amber eyes. Demon eyes.
Eyes her mother once called beautiful.
Don't look at me like that, she whispered to the mirror.
But she wasn't talking to herself.
She was talking to him.