Maeve
The monastery ruins were older than any map suggested, half-buried in vines and silence. Stones lay cracked and uneven beneath her boots, the once-holy ground now a mausoleum of forgotten prayers.
Maeve walked slightly ahead of the group, her eyes sweeping the broken arches and sagging cloisters. She wasn't one to put much faith in dreams or fate—but ever since Lyra had appeared, like a ghost from Kaelen's past made flesh, a pressure had built behind her ribs. Something unseen. Something unspoken.
Lyra was kind. Too kind.
That was the trouble.
Maeve had watched her all morning—how she moved, how she spoke. Noticed the subtle ways she deflected questions, how she smiled with precision, how her gaze lingered too long on certain ruins as if remembering something not meant to be remembered.
No one else saw it. Kaelen least of all.
He softened around her. His voice lightened, his shoulders relaxed. It was as if Lyra had stepped into a hollow space within him—and filled it perfectly.
That was what Maeve couldn't ignore.
At the edge of a broken stairwell, she knelt and traced a glyph with her fingers. It pulsed faintly under her touch—old magic, buried but not gone. Nearby, Lyra hummed a lullaby. Sweet. Tuneful. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Maeve rose slowly, brushing dust from her palms. "How did you know that song?"
Lyra blinked, startled. "What song?"
"The one you were humming."
"I—I don't know," Lyra laughed lightly. "I used to sing it as a child, I think. It just came back to me."
Maeve gave a tight smile. "Curious. That melody predates this Order."
But Lyra only tilted her head, innocent as dew. "Perhaps we heard it from the same place."
Maeve said nothing. Her silence was its own blade. She turned, walking back into shadowed halls, her hand lingering briefly on the hilt of her dagger.
Rhess
Rhess never cared much for ruins. He preferred noise, fire, something alive. This place felt dead. And worse—it smelled of quiet lies.
He watched Lyra from the rear of the group as she chatted softly with Seralyn and Kaelen. Her voice was light, her laughter even lighter. Too practiced. Too… gentle.
He didn't like it.
He hadn't spoken it aloud, not even to Maeve, but something about Lyra didn't sit right. Maybe it was the way she'd barely flinched when the wight-thing lunged at her. Most would scream, scramble, shake—but she'd just stood there, wide-eyed but still. The fear had felt... off.
Still, Kaelen beamed around her like dawn breaking through storm. And Rhess liked Kaelen too much to rip into that light.
So he watched. He listened.
They passed through a corridor flanked with old statues—warriors of light whose faces had crumbled into expressionless ruin. Rhess dragged a gloved hand across one of them. "Strange place for a memory," he muttered.
"What do you mean?" Lyra asked, smiling beside him.
Rhess shrugged. "You haven't asked where we're going. Or why. You don't ask a lot, really."
Lyra's smile didn't falter. "Should I?"
"Most people would."
"I trust Kaelen," she said, voice as smooth as silk soaked in honey. "He'll take us where we need to be."
Rhess stared at her. "Not where he wants to be?"
She blinked. "What's the difference?"
He grinned without warmth. "You tell me."
They walked on. The silence stretched.
Maeve caught up to him a few minutes later, her expression unreadable.
"She's not what she seems," Rhess said under his breath.
Maeve's jaw tightened. "No. But she's very good at seeming."
They said nothing else. The ruins pressed in.
And ahead of them, Kaelen laughed softly at something Lyra whispered.