Chapter 10 — The Flame She Hid
He hadn't meant to enter her room.
The palace was vast, but his steps always found her door — even when he told himself not to. Even when he whispered to the walls, "Leave her be." They never listened. The palace had a memory of its own, and it remembered warmth.
Lyra had left early that morning, summoned to the eastern wing for embroidery lessons she didn't enjoy. He knew that because she always returned with threads tangled in her hair and a sigh tucked behind her smile.
He stood at the threshold of her chamber, unsure.
Then the wind nudged the door open.
Inside, the room was soft. Pale curtains swayed gently. A shawl lay folded on the bed, still holding the shape of her shoulders. The scent of firelilies lingered — faint, but unmistakable.
He didn't touch anything.
Not until he saw the desk.
It was simple, carved from moonwood, with a drawer slightly ajar. Not enough to be careless. Just enough to suggest hesitation.
He reached for it slowly.
Inside, beneath a folded petal, was the letter.
No seal. No name. But he knew.
He knew.
His fingers trembled as he unfolded the parchment. The ink was delicate, like her voice when she asked questions he couldn't answer.
> To the one who never sleeps…
He read each word as if it were a breath he'd forgotten how to take.
> *I don't know if I'm allowed to write this.
> I don't know if you'll ever read it.
> But tonight, I needed to speak to someone — and you are the only one I wish would listen.*
He closed his eyes.
She had written this in silence. In longing. In the kind of vulnerability he had spent centuries avoiding.
> *You said I chose to stay.
> You were right.
> I could have run. I could have begged to go home. But something in your silence called to mine.*
He felt something stir in his chest — not fire, not fury. Something older. Something gentler.
> *I see the way you never touch anything unless it's breaking or blooming.
> And I wonder… which one am I?*
He swallowed hard.
She had seen him.
Not the crown. Not the curse. Him.
And she had written this not to accuse, not to demand, but to offer herself — quietly, bravely.
> *If I am to burn, let it be beside you.
> If I am to bloom, let it be because of you.*
He folded the letter carefully, reverently, and placed it back where she had hidden it.
Then he sat in her chair.
And waited.
---
Lyra returned just before sunset, her fingers stained with dye, her braid loose from the wind. She paused at the door, sensing something.
He was there.
Sitting at her desk.
She froze.
He didn't speak. He simply turned, slowly, and met her gaze.
She saw the letter in his hand.
Her breath caught.
"I wasn't meant to find it," he said softly.
Lyra stepped forward, heart pounding. "I didn't mean for you to read it."
"I know."
Silence stretched between them — not heavy, not sharp. Just full.
Then he stood, walked to her, and placed the letter in her palm.
"You are neither breaking nor blooming," he said. "You are choosing."
She looked up at him, eyes wide.
"And I," he whispered, "am learning."
He reached out, gently, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
"I don't sleep," he said. "But I dream now."
Lyra's voice was barely audible. "Of what?"
He smiled — not cold, not distant. Just real.
"Of you."