Chapter 12 — The Room That Remembered
The palace had many doors.
Some were carved from obsidian, others from pale wood that whispered when touched. Some led to gardens, others to silence. But one door — the one Lyra had once found glowing faintly red — had remained closed.
Until now.
He didn't speak when he led her there.
His hand was warm around hers, steady but not forceful. The corridor was quiet, lit only by the soft shimmer of dragonsteel torches. Lyra's slippers made no sound on the marble floor, and her heart beat gently — not with fear, but with wonder.
When they reached the door, he paused.
It no longer glowed. It looked like any other door now — plain, dark, forgotten.
But Lyra knew better.
"Are you sure?" she asked softly.
He looked down at her, and for the first time, his eyes held no fire. Only memory.
"I want you to see," he said. "Because you are not afraid of what I was."
He opened the door.
The room beyond was small. Round. The walls were lined with old tapestries, faded with time. In the center stood a single chair, and beside it — a harp made of bone and gold.
Lyra stepped inside slowly.
It smelled of ash and lavender.
"This was hers," he said.
She turned to him, eyes wide. "The one who wore the ribbon?"
He nodded. "Her name was Elira. She was kind. Like you."
Lyra's voice was barely a whisper. "Did you love her?"
He didn't answer right away. He walked to the harp and touched one of its strings. The note that rang out was soft, aching.
"I tried," he said. "But I didn't know how."
Lyra stepped closer. "What happened to her?"
"She left," he said. "Not because she stopped caring. But because I wouldn't let her see the parts of me that were still burning."
Lyra looked at the chair. A small cushion rested on it, embroidered with stars.
"She waited here," he said. "Every night. Hoping I would come."
Lyra's heart ached — not with jealousy, but with tenderness. She reached out and touched the back of the chair.
"I would have waited too," she said.
He looked at her then — really looked — and something in his expression softened, like snow melting beneath sunlight.
"I know," he said.
She turned to him, hands clasped gently in front of her. "But you came to me instead."
He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid to break the moment.
"I don't want you to wait," he said. "I want you to walk beside me."
Lyra's eyes shimmered. "Even if I don't understand everything?"
"Especially then."
She smiled — small, sweet, and full of trust.
Then she did something she hadn't done before.
She reached up and touched his cheek.
His breath caught.
Her fingers were soft, cool from the stone walls, but her touch was steady. She didn't ask for anything. She didn't demand answers.
She simply stayed.
And in that quiet room, where old love had once waited and faded, something new began to bloom.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
But real.