The air in the servant's hall felt wrong. Not thick, not cold, simply wrong, like the faint scent of rain on a day with no clouds. Lyra sat with her back to the far wall, pretending to mend a tear in the sleeve of an old ceremonial robe, though the needle had been hovering above the cloth for several heartbeats.
It wasn't just her imagination. The others felt it too. No one was speaking in the lazy, careless way they usually did between chores. Boots clicked across the marble floor outside, measured, deliberate.
The prince had entered the servants' wing.
A ripple passed through the room, quiet as a shiver through grass. Servants adjusted collars, smoothed hair, found something urgent to polish or fold. Lyra dropped her gaze, but her shoulders tightened. Kieran did not belong here, in the world where plain linen reigned and the air always smelled faintly of soap.
He appeared in the doorway as if the light itself had bent to frame him. Dark hair caught the sun in dangerous streaks, eyes sharp enough to cut through pretense. Behind him trailed two guards in ceremonial armor, their spears resting against their shoulders.
The prince's gaze swept the room, not hurried, not searching, hunting.
"Line up." His voice was even, almost bored, yet it carried a weight that made everyone obey without thought. Lyra rose with the others, hands clasped in front of her, chin down. She had hoped he would ignore her.
He didn't.
One by one, he moved down the line, asking questions in that deceptively calm tone. Where were you last night? Did you see anything unusual? Who did you speak with after the celebration?
When he reached her, he stopped. She could feel the air between them shift, the way a still pond trembles when a stone is about to drop.
"Your name."
"Lyra," she said, forcing her voice to stay even.
His gaze flicked over her, face, hands, posture, like a craftsman inspecting the surface of wood, searching for hidden cracks. "You work in the outer kitchens, don't you?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"I was told you were seen near the west pavilion during the celebration. That's far from the kitchens."
Her mind spun for a heartbeat too long. "I was delivering wine," she lied, her voice catching on the last word.
One eyebrow lifted, almost imperceptibly. "And the cupbearer was too busy to do their duty?"
"I… don't know, Your Highness." The needle she'd abandoned earlier seemed to burn against her palm, though she wasn't holding it anymore. Her heart drummed too loud in her ears.
He leaned closer, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for her to see the faintest scar at his temple, a thin pale line half-hidden by his hair. His voice lowered. "Wine delivery doesn't explain the blood on your sleeve."
Her breath caught. She had scrubbed her robe last night until her hands stung, but the faintest rust-colored stain clung near the seam.
She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, one of the guards stepped forward, murmuring something to him. His attention broke from her, just for an instant, but it was enough for Lyra to gather herself.
Kieran straightened, his face smoothing back into princely indifference. "You're dismissed… for now."
She stepped out of the line, relief thin and brittle in her chest. But as she moved toward the back of the hall, she felt the unmistakable weight of his gaze following her.
It wasn't the gaze of a man simply conducting an investigation. It was the gaze of someone who had caught the scent of something rare, and dangerous, and wasn't about to let it escape.
The rest of the morning bled into afternoon in a haze of chores. Lyra scrubbed floors, carried water, swept corridors, all the while replaying that moment: his eyes on hers, the question about her sleeve. She couldn't stop touching the faint mark on the fabric, as though she could erase it with her fingers.
By the time dusk arrived, she was no closer to finding a way to hide the truth that was blooming inside her like a poisonous flower.
She had felt it again earlier, while rinsing vegetables, the shadows at the edge of the basin had shifted, curling toward her hands. The sensation was intoxicating, terrifying, impossible to explain.
The Shadow Sovereign's voice still echoed in some buried corner of her memory from that night: You've taken what was mine. Guard it well.
Guard it? From who? From him? From Kieran? Or from herself?
She didn't have an answer.
It was after the evening meal that she found herself walking alone in the west corridor, a place usually quiet after sunset. The moonlight spilled through the lattice windows, painting silver patterns on the polished stone. Her footsteps felt too loud in the silence.
She turned a corner, and nearly collided with him.
Kieran stood with one shoulder against the wall, as though he had been waiting. No guards this time.
"Lyra," he said, and the sound of her name in his voice felt like the stillness before a storm.
She swallowed. "Your Highness."
"You're not a good liar."
Her pulse quickened. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"You know exactly what I mean." His eyes didn't leave hers. "Whatever you were doing near the pavilion… it wasn't delivering wine. And if you keep lying, I won't protect you when others come asking."
She froze. The choice in his words was a trap disguised as mercy.
"Why would you protect me?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped closer until the shadows swallowed the space between them. "Because something is coming for this palace, and if I'm right, you're already tangled in it."
His voice was low, but not threatening, more like the quiet of a blade sliding free of its sheath.
Lyra opened her mouth to demand more, but he stepped back, the moment already folding in on itself. "Go back to your quarters, Lyra. And if you value your life, stay away from the west pavilion."
She stood there long after he left, the silver moonlight pooling around her feet, her thoughts knotting tighter.
She had no idea whether his warning was a threat… or a strange kind of protection.
Either way, she knew one thing for certain: he wasn't done with her.