The halls of Veylan Keep were quieter at night, but not peaceful.
Alaric moved through them alone, freshly bathed, hair damp and curling against his neck. The soft light of sconces threw long shadows along the stone corridors. Footsteps echoed differently when the servants retreated for the evening, and the rest of the house had gone behind closed doors to pretend at sleep.
He wasn't pretending.
The Trial loomed ahead of him like a blade held just out of sight. Everyone said tomorrow would determine the rest of his life, but no one could quite tell him how. That was the trick of it. The Myth didn't follow rules. It didn't care about preparation or effort. It chose—or didn't.
And Alaric had a creeping suspicion that effort might not be enough.
He passed the gallery leading to the family shrine and hesitated. The polished stone steps gleamed. No guards. No one watching. Maybe—
"Still wandering, cousin?"
The voice was smooth and cool, familiar now, though it hadn't been just weeks ago.
Lyra stood at the end of the corridor, a slim silhouette framed by the flickering light. Her posture was flawless; arms folded in a way that made it look casual. But nothing Lyra did was casual.
"I could ask the same," Alaric said, careful not to sound defensive. He was tired, not stupid.
She stepped closer, her heels making the barest sound against the floor. "Can't sleep either?"
He shrugged. "Not really."
"Understandable." Her gaze flicked toward the shrine, then back to him. "If you're hoping the ancestors can offer clarity, I can save you the trouble. They like riddles. And disappointments."
He tilted his head. "Comforting."
Lyra offered a faint smile. "What will happen, will happen. What won't happen, won't happen."
"I see you got Uncle Theren's annoying ability to speak in riddles." Alaric smiled back.
She moved past him without waiting for permission, brushing his shoulder slightly. Not enough to count as rude. Just enough to feel like a challenge.
He turned, watching her descend the stairs to the shrine with graceful ease. "Why are you really here?" he asked.
She stopped halfway down, then looked up at him over her shoulder. "Same reason you are. I want to see who I'll be tomorrow."
Alaric stayed at the top of the steps long after she disappeared below. The silence settled in again, thicker now, heavier. He didn't go down after her.
He returned to his quarters, eyes catching on each tapestry and relic as he passed. Family triumphs. Old glories. Past heirs. All staring down like painted ghosts.
Lira was already there, curled in one of the chairs near the hearth with a book balanced in her lap. She looked up as he entered.
"You went to the shrine?" she asked.
"Yes." He sank into the chair across from her and let his head fall back. "I found Lyra there."
Lira made a small, unimpressed sound in her throat. "Of course she was, she is always lurking."
Alaric didn't answer.
Lira set her book aside. "You're not afraid of failing."
He opened his eyes. "No?"
"You're afraid of disappointing your father, your family."
That was it. She said it so simply, like truth should never weigh that much.
"I'm tired," he said softly.
"I know."
"I've done everything I was supposed to. I trained harder than anyone. I studied the rituals. I learned the bloodline prayers. But it doesn't matter, does it? The Myth won't care about any of that."
Lira was quiet for a moment. "You can't force a flame to burn. But that doesn't mean the spark in you isn't real."
He wanted to believe her. Gods, he did. But in his chest, he felt like a cracked lantern—lit from the outside, not from within.
Across the keep, a single bell tolled.
Midnight.
The last night of unknowing was over.
He couldn't sleep.
He tried.
He lay on his back beneath heavy sheets; eyes fixed on the carved beams of the ceiling. Every time his eyes closed, he imagined the hall tomorrow. The cold circle of stone. The Myth's altar. The silence before judgment. The way Lyra would stand beside him—composed, sure.
The way Uncle Theren would look at her. The way his father would look at him.
Was this what it meant to be an heir? To spend every night before glory feeling like you might throw up.
At some point, he got out of bed. Crossed to the window. The city in the distance slept beneath a low fog, its towers rising like stone teeth from the mist.
Somewhere out there were people who didn't know what a Myth was. Who didn't have to wonder whether their blood would burn with divine fire or remain stubbornly human.
He stayed there until the stars faded.
In the morning, the Veylan estate would rise with ceremonial calm. Servants would light incense. Bells would ring. The high bloodlines would gather in finery and silence to watch the choosing.
In the morning, everything would change.
But for now, Alaric simply stood in the dark, waiting for the world to begin.