The morning had started like any other.
Lyra stepped out of the bathroom, the scent of jasmine soap still clinging to her skin. She slipped into a black silk dress, simple but elegant, the kind that made people stare without knowing why. Her hair, that unmistakable gray, fell over her shoulders in soft waves. She picked up her keys, ready to visit Samuel, he'd been ill lately, but she still expected him to be sitting in his garden chair, smiling like he always did.
Then the phone rang.
She answered without thinking, voice steady.
The pause on the other end told her everything.
Her expression didn't change, but smething in her eyes changed.
The next scene unfolded beneath a gray sky.
Rain hadn't come, but the air felt heavy, mourning with them. People stood around the open grave in silence, black umbrellas around the field. Lyra stood beside Miriam, who leaned into her, face buried in her shoulder, quiet sobs shaking her body.
Lyra's hands rested on the woman's back, still and firm. She didn't cry, hadn't cried in centuries, but the silence in her chest hurt more than tears ever could.
She stared at the coffin, wood polished and gleaming like Samuel's favorite mahogany desk.
He'd been a boy once, a trembling young man swearing his loyalty to her, eyes full of devotion and fear. She'd watched him grow, watched him love, watched him age.
Now he was gone.
Miriam's voice broke through the silence. "He… he wanted to talk to you," she whispered.
Lyra didn't answer. She just looked at the grave as the first shovel of dirt fell, dull and final.
Inside, something old stirred, the same ache she felt every time she buried another piece of her past.
Lyra slammed the door shut behind her, the sound echoing through the quiet house. Her heels clicked across the marble floor, sharp, angry, unsteady. The air felt too heavy, pressing down on her like invisible hands.
Her eyes landed on the glass table in the center of the room. Before she even thought about it, her fingers dug into the edge and she lifted it, like it weighed nothing. The glass cracked under her grip as she flung it across the room. It hit the wall and shattered into a thousand glittering pieces.
Her breath came hard and uneven. The fury burned through her chest like old fire suddenly remembering it once ruled the sun.
"Let me die!" she shouted, voice raw. "Do you hear me? I've paid for it, every damn day of it!"
Her hands shook. The lights flickered as if something deep inside her pulsed.
She looked up, eyes glistening but fierce. "You took everything from me… my throne, my name, my home. And for what?" Her voice broke into a growl. "For mortals? !The same mortals who betrayed me after I gave them everything?!"
She sank to her knees, gripping her head, hair spilling forward. The anger turned to something quieter but sharper, an ache that had lived too long.
"Why won't you let me rest…" she whispered, her voice barely a breath now. "Just let me fade already."
She sat there for a long time staring at she'd made. Shattered glass everywhere, her reflection broken a hundred different ways. Her chest was still heaving, but the anger had started to slide into something colder—resentment that had nowhere left to go.
She hated it. The strength in her arms, the faint hum under her skin that reminded her what she used to be. She could still lift a car if she wanted. Still hear the pulse of life from a mile away. Still sense them, the Elyths and the Neraths.
But her divinity… the real power, the one that bent worlds and moved storms? Gone. It was like having a voice and no breath to sing.
"Why leave me with this?" she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. "You took everything else."
Every time she felt the Neraths close, they felt her too. They always did. Drawn to her like predators catching the scent of blood. They came at her again and again, hungry for whatever power still lingered in her veins. And she fought them off,.barely. Each time left her weaker, more furious.
It was cruel, she thought. The Supreme could've stripped her clean, made her mortal. But no, He left her tainted, halfway between god and nothing. A reminder of what she'd lost that she could never stop feeling.
---
Days passed....
The room was quiet except for the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. Candlelight filled the air with a soft golden haze, the scent of old parchment and burning sage wrapping around everyone like a cloak.
Mariam knelt in front of Lyra, her head bowed. Her husband stood behind her, holding the family Bible they never used for church, and their two grown children, Daniel and Ruth, watched in uneasy silence. They'd heard the stories all their lives, but this was the first time they were seeing the woman their family had served for generations.
Lyra looked ageless in the candlelight—beautiful, distant, and calm in a way that didn't feel human. The grey in her hair shimmered faintly, like silver catching fire.
"Raise your head, Mariam," Lyra said quietly. Her voice was smooth but carried something heavy beneath it.
Mariam lifted her gaze, tears already welling. "I swear, as my father swore before me," she began, her voice trembling, "that my family and I will serve you, Lady Lyra. We will protect your name, your legacy, and your secret until the end of our days."
Her husband placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. "And we will keep your affairs in order, as our fathers did before us," he added softly.
Lyra nodded once. Her eyes softened for just a second. She had watched this woman grow from a child to a mothee, and now she was watching her step into her father's place. Time was cruel like that, it never stopped for anyone but her.
Lyra stepped closer, resting her hand on Mariam's forehead. The air in the room shifted, a faint shimmer of power circling the candles. "Then let it be bound," she said. "Your family's loyalty shall not be forgotten. Nor shall your name fade from my memory."
Mariam whispered, "We are honored, my Lady."
Lyra's expression faltered for a moment tired, almost sad. "No," she said softly, "you are bound."
The candles flickered violently, then went still. Mariam's children exchanged a look, fear and awe mixing in their faces. Lyra turned away, her tone final.
"Go home," she said. "Rest. You've done what was asked."
As they left, Mariam glanced back one last time. Lyra stood there, still and silent, watching the flame of a single candle burn low. For a moment, Mariam could've sworn the woman looked lonely, like someone who'd been saying the same goodbye for centuries.