The chamber was hushed, window light stretched long shadows across the paneled walls, catching on the gilt edges of the portraits that stared down with cold, forgotten eyes.
Baron Griffith stood before her, hands clasped behind his back, his frame stern and unyielding despite the years etched across his brow.
"You bear her face," he said at last, voice low, grave. "Too much to be chance. Your mother's eyes… and that birthmark upon your wrist. No court seamstress could sew such threads."
Lira kept her gaze lowered, fingers fidgeting at the hem of her maid's apron. The words pressed against her, heavy as chains. She let her lips part, her voice faint, deliberately unsure.
"My lord… I—I remember very little. A cradle by a window. A lullaby… sometimes. Then fire. Then nothing. My memories—they are a blur."
Blurred, yes—but by my choosing. Why give you clarity, when shadows serve me better?
The Baron's expression wavered, sternness cracking into something softer, almost pained. He drew closer, his shadow falling over her slight form.
"Blurs are all that remain to a child stolen away. They would have wiped you clean to fashion a servant, a vessel. But blood cannot be erased. You are mine daughter."
He reached for her wrist, turning it gently to reveal the faint sigil-like mark half-hidden beneath her skin. A perfect match to the line etched into his own signet ring.
"Lira Griffith," he declared, more to himself than to her. "Lost, but not lost forever. They will not deny me, my blood."
'How fortunate that a scrap of flesh convinces you more than truth ever could. Men will cling to symbols, and I will use them until their hands bleed.'
Aloud, she allowed a tremor to lace her words, feigned as if fragile.
"Then… you are truly my father?"
The Baron's voice steadied with conviction, his hand tightening upon hers.
"I am. And from this day forward, no shadow nor whisper shall strip you from my side again."
Lira bowed her head, letting a shiver run down her frame. Not of weakness, but of satisfaction.
Good. Hold me close. Bind yourself to me with love and guilt. It will blind you faster than any chain could.
"Then… I am home," she whispered.
The Baron smiled faintly for the first time, though weariness clouded it. He did not see the gleam that flickered in her eyes—cold, calculating, ancient.
The chamber was silent yet heavy with Wystan standing inside, the head maid at his side. Both kept a careful distance, though neither made effort to hide the way their eyes studied the girl who had just been named daughter of Baron Griffith.
The Baron's grip lingered on Lira's wrist, his voice steady.
"You will not doubt it again, Wystan. Look at her. The mark, the eyes—she is mine daughter."
The old steward inclined his head, though his expression betrayed restraint. "My lord… resemblance and birthmarks may mislead. I would not dare question your word, but…" His glance slid toward the woman at his side.
The head maid folded her hands neatly before her, her gaze unreadable. "And yet, it would be wise to seek confirmation. For the girl's sake. For the household's."
At that, another voice stirred from the far side of the room. The Second Holy Maiden had risen from her place, her white veil casting a faint shadow across her pale face. She stepped closer, her presence gentle yet unyielding.
"My lord," she said softly, "the temple possesses rites for such matters. Sacred tests that discern true bloodlines, beyond doubt. If the young lady is indeed of your house, the gods will affirm it. Would you not wish for heaven's confirmation, rather than mere mortal eyes?"
The Baron stilled, torn between pride and reason. His gaze drifted back to Lira, searching.
Lira's breath caught, though she lowered her eyes to veil it.
'The temple. No. Their light digs too deep, tears apart the seams of what I am. One glimpse, and they will see—not your daughter, but the soul of mine... who is not your daughter. '
Her pulse throbbed, but when she raised her head, her expression was calm, even demure.
"There is no need," she said, her voice soft but certain. "The Baron has recognized me. His word is truth enough. I… do not wish to stand before the temple."
The Holy Maiden's brows drew together faintly.
"Young lady, why fear confirmation, if your blood is true?"
Lira let her lips curve into a faint, trembling smile.
'Because truth is a blade, and I would rather wield it than fall beneath it.'
Aloud, her tone broke sweetly. "I have lived in shadow, nameless, voiceless, since I can remember. To be recognized… by a FATHER'S heart, " She deliberately pressed on words. "by his eyes—that is enough for me. I… only wish to serve."
Baron's eyes softened hearing (Father).
Her gaze turned, intentionally, toward the steward and the maid, before at last settling on the Baron.
"If I may ask for one thing, my lord—it is to remain where I have felt… belonging. At Lady Elira's side and His Grace Duke. They showed me kindness long before I remember my name. Allow me to continue to serve them and this house. For me, that is a greater honor than titles or rites."
' Think me humble. Let them believe I cling to this. House like a grateful orphan. The closer I stay to Elira, the deeper I can weave my roots. And when the time comes… neither temple, nor anyone else will be able to tear me free.'
The silence that followed was thick, almost brittle, as if the chamber itself strained to hold the weight of too many eyes.
Baron Griffith's hand lingered protectively over Lira's wrist. His gaze shifted, sweeping across the steward, the head maid, and the veiled Holy Maiden. His jaw tightened.
"Steward,"
He said at last, his voice carrying the quiet command of a man who had sat long at council tables, and longer still in battlefields of words and steel.
"Leave us. I would like to speak with my daughter—alone."
Wystan's back straightened, the faintest flicker of protest crossing his lined face.
"My lord, with all due respect, I cannot permit it. The girl's place has not been settled by law nor rite. Until then—"
The Baron's eyes snapped to him, flint and iron.
"You forget yourself, Wystan?!"
The steward bowed slightly, but did not yield. "I forget nothing. It is my duty—"
"I'm Baron," Baron Griffith cut in, his tone sharpened. You serve, Wystan. Do not mistake your station."
Wystan's jaw set, but the flicker of resistance faded. He inclined his head in surrender, though the hesitation in his eyes lingered.
"Very well, my lord," he murmured. "But if shadows rise from this choice, they will fall upon your shoulders, not mine."
The head maid gave a curt bow, hiding whatever passed through her gaze. The Holy Maiden lingered for a moment longer, as if to speak, but at the Baron's unyielding stare, she too inclined her head and swept out, her veil trailing like pale mist.
The great doors shut with a heavy finality, leaving only father and daughter in the gilded chamber.
The Baron's shoulders eased, though the weight of command did not leave him. He turned back to Lira, softer now, the steel in his tone tempered with something closer to doubt.
"My child," he said, drawing closer. "Tell me truthfully. Is it fear that binds your tongue? Has someone threatened you, kept you from speaking what you know? You need not hide it from me. Not anymore."
His eyes searched hers, earnest, almost desperate.
Lira tilted her face upward, lashes lowering just enough to veil the gleam that flickered there.
' How convenient. Baron, I mean my just found father... of your way of thinking. A cage built of his own pity.'
She drew in a slow, steady breath, letting her lips part with the faintest tremor.
"My lord…" Her voice was soft, threaded with both fragility and reverence. "If I am silent, it is not because I am bound. Only… because I fear to break what I have found here. To lose it, if I reach too far."
Her fingers brushed the hem of her apron again, as though nervous, though her mind already weighed how easily his doubt might be twisted into rope—one that would bind him more firmly to her cause than any bloodline ever could.