The morning began like a cracked porcelain cup, outwardly whole, but something in the way it trembled under the fingers promised a shatter if touched wrong.
Lyra kept her head down as she scrubbed the long banquet tables in the sect's eastern pavilion. Her arms ached from the endless rinse-and-wipe rhythm, though it wasn't the labor that hollowed her out. It was the knowing. The constant thrum under her skin, as though some strange heartbeat had taken root in her veins.
Every so often, when her focus wavered, she felt it shift, the darkness inside her curling like smoke against glass, restless, as if testing the limits of its new cage. She'd barely slept, afraid she might wake to find her room filled with shadows that didn't belong to the lanterns.
The pavilion smelled faintly of damp wood and the faint citrus oil the servants used to polish the carved phoenix inlays. Outside, voices drifted from the training courtyard, shouts, the clang of weapons, the barked orders of instructors drilling disciples for the spring exhibition. Lyra forced herself to keep moving, but the more she tried to think about the smell of citrus or the scrape of cloth against lacquer, the more she felt the pressure in her body grow.
She didn't notice the senior servant until the woman's hand smacked the back of her head.
"Stop daydreaming," the woman hissed. "The west wing is expecting refreshments within the quarter hour."
"Yes, Mistress Rin," Lyra murmured. Her voice was even, though her knuckles whitened around the rag.
Mistress Rin didn't move away immediately. She leaned close, lips curling in that smile she reserved for the servants too low to matter and too proud to break quickly. "If you want to keep your position, you'll stop wandering about at night as you did two evenings ago. People talk, little Lyra."
The words landed like hooks. Two evenings ago. The night she'd carried the Shadow Sovereign's weight across the moonlit path. The night she'd stolen something without knowing it.
"I understand," she said, forcing her gaze to the floor.
Rin left with a swish of skirts, and Lyra's pulse quickened. People were talking. Which meant the prince's investigation might not be the only danger.
She hurried toward the kitchens, balancing a tray of steaming tea and sweet rice cakes for the west wing's meeting hall. The hallway seemed longer than usual, the painted lotus on the paper walls wavering in her peripheral vision. Her breath felt heavy. The pressure in her chest had turned into a pulse, like a second heart trying to tear its way out.
At the end of the corridor, a group of young disciples blocked the doorway. Their robes were too clean for the hour; they weren't training. They were waiting.
One of them, Ren Haoyu, all sharp jaw and sharper cruelty, smirked as she approached. "Look at this. The little shadow-mouse bringing us breakfast."
Her steps slowed. "Excuse me, I need to,"
He stepped forward, forcing her to stop, and flicked a rice cake from the tray with his fingers. It landed on the floor, breaking apart. "Oops."
The other disciples chuckled.
Her fingers tightened on the tray. She could almost hear Zara's voice in her head, telling her to swallow her pride, not to make trouble. But the pressure in her chest was building in a way that felt dangerous. It was no longer just heat or weight, it was movement. The darkness inside her slithered in response to her anger, tasting it like blood in the water.
Haoyu tipped the tray with a casual hand. She caught it before it spilled, but the tea sloshed over her wrist, burning. The pain was sharp enough to snap something loose.
She felt the air around her shiver.
It wasn't dramatic. No explosion, no roar. Just a subtle dimming, as though the light in the corridor had taken a single step back. The shadows on the floor stretched toward her, slow and deliberate, bending at angles they shouldn't.
Haoyu froze. His smirk faltered.
Lyra blinked hard, and the moment broke. The shadows returned to their ordinary shapes, and the warm lantern glow returned to the walls.
"Move," she said quietly.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried. Haoyu stepped aside without thinking, the laughter gone from his face. She walked past them, pulse hammering, heart sick with what had just happened.
The tea trembled in its cups.
She didn't remember the walk back to her quarters after delivering the refreshments. Her thoughts spun in tight circles, always returning to the same point: that wasn't an accident. That was the thing inside her, responding to her anger.
And she hadn't needed to call it. It had come on its own.
She closed the door behind her and sat on the narrow bed, palms pressed over her eyes. Her breath came fast. She imagined the prince's face if he'd been there to see it, the keen, watchful eyes, the slight narrowing that meant he'd found another puzzle piece to a picture she couldn't let him finish.
She would have to be more careful.
But how could she be careful with something she didn't understand?
That evening, the sect's servants were summoned to the grand hall for the prince's inspection. Officially, he was searching for clues about the Shadow Sovereign's attempted assassination. Unofficially, he was hunting for the scent of a trail, and Lyra feared she reeked of it.
Prince Kieran stood on the dais beside Elder Kaelis, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp as a blade's edge. He wore deep blue robes embroidered with silver clouds, his hair bound with a silver clasp shaped like a crescent moon. His beauty was a cruel kind, the kind that didn't care if it wounded.
One by one, the servants stepped forward to be questioned. Lyra kept her head lowered, listening as the prince asked each of them about their movements that night, their duties, any unusual sights. His voice was calm, almost bored, but she noticed how he lingered on hesitation, how his eyes brightened when someone faltered.
When her turn came, she stepped forward and bowed.
"Lyra," he said, as though testing the taste of her name. "You serve in the eastern pavilion?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
His eyes held hers for a fraction too long. "You were seen near the outer courtyard two nights ago, after curfew."
Her stomach turned to ice. "I was sent to deliver linens to the guest chambers," she said, the lie slipping out with practiced ease.
His gaze didn't waver. "At that hour?"
She kept her voice level. "The guest had arrived late. Mistress Rin instructed me personally."
A small hum, almost thoughtful. "And did you see anything unusual that night?"
She hesitated. A mistake. She saw it in the way his head tilted slightly, the faint spark in his eyes.
"No," she said quickly. "Nothing unusual."
The silence that followed was heavier than it should have been. Finally, he nodded and gestured for her to step back.
She could feel his eyes on her long after she'd rejoined the line.
The inspection ended without incident, but as the servants were dismissed, Lyra felt a presence fall into step beside her.
"Careful," Zara murmured without looking at her. "You're drawing attention."
"I didn't do anything," Lyra whispered back.
"You breathe, and you draw attention now," Zara said. Then, softer, "Meet me tonight. The storeroom, after moonrise. We need to talk."
The storeroom smelled of dried herbs and dust. Lyra closed the door behind her and leaned against it, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
Zara stepped out from behind a stack of crates, her face pale in the lamplight. "You're not hiding it well enough," she said.
"Hiding what?"
"The thing in you. Don't play dumb with me, Lyra. I've seen the way the shadows move around you now. You think no one notices, but they do. And if I can see it, the prince will too."
Lyra swallowed. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Control it," Zara said. "Or make everyone believe it's not dangerous. Otherwise…" She trailed off, the rest unspoken.
They both knew what would happen if the sect decided she was dangerous.
Before Lyra could answer, the sound of footsteps echoed outside the storeroom. Two sets. One light, one deliberate.
She froze. Zara mouthed a single word.
Prince.