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The rain in Elarion didn't fall — it hissed. Every drop shimmered faintly with magic, burning against the cobblestones before vanishing into steam.
Lyra Vael stood under the ruined awning of a tea house, cloak soaked, eyes tracking the glow of the floating patrol orbs drifting down the alley. The Council's banners fluttered in the mist — golden sigils over black silk. She had ten minutes before curfew.
Ten minutes to finish what she came here for.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the quiet thrum beneath her ribs — her mother's locket. A charm against discovery. Or maybe a curse.
Inside the tea house, laughter flickered. Soft. Drunken. Two nobles leaned over a low table, voices syrupy with arrogance.
Lyra stepped inside.
The warmth hit her first — too bright, too alive. Her pulse quickened. She could feel their emotions like heat waves: greed, lust, satisfaction. All the things forbidden to people like her.
Another round, one slurred, tossing a silver coin at the barkeep.
Lyra smiled faintly. Allow me.
They turned. Two men, their coats embroidered with the Council's sigils. Soldiers, not innocents. The kind who signed death warrants for people who cried too loudly.
Her fingers brushed the knife at her thigh. Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft as rain.
You don't remember me, do you?
The taller one squinted. Should I?
She took a step closer. My mother used to work in your court. You called her Ember-witch before you burned her.
Recognition flickered. Then fear. Then laughter — cruel, sharp.
Oh, the man said, you're her brat.
Lyra didn't give him time for another word. Her hand flared with light — molten gold threaded with crimson — and the room erupted in a wave of heat. The teahouse windows cracked, lamps burst, and screams tore through the steam.
When the smoke cleared, she was gone.
Outside, the rain hissed louder. Lyra pulled her hood back up, jaw tight.
Another name crossed off the list. Another ghost satisfied.
But her reflection in a puddle stopped her cold. Her eyes — once gray — now burned faintly with silver.
Too much emotion. Too much power. She was losing control again.
She closed her eyes and breathed, counting backwards from ten. One slip, and the entire district would know what she was.
Impressive, a voice said behind her.
Lyra spun, knife flashing. But the man who stood in the rain didn't move.
He was tall, hooded, and wore a black coat that glistened. His expression was unreadable. Zero fear, no anger — nothing. Even the rain seemed to fall around him instead of on him.
Who are you? she demanded.
Someone who watched you nearly burn down half the market, he said calmly. His tone was too even, like a blade smoothed by time. You're not exactly subtle.
Lyra's knife didn't waver. If you saw anything, you'll forget it.
I don't forget. He stepped forward. And I don't feel.
Her pulse stumbled. What?
He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she were the strange one. "No heartbeat shift. No emotional current. I'm not reacting to you — or anyone. You can sense it, can't you?
She hesitated, magic flickering at her fingertips. He was right — she couldn't feel him. Everyone in Elarion gave off something. A taste of fear, a shimmer of joy. But this man was… empty.
"Who are you? she asked again, quieter now.
He smiled faintly. Kael.
And what do you want, Kael?
He nodded toward her locket. To keep you alive, for a start. The Council will notice that outburst soon. They'll come for you.
Lyra's heart kicked. And why would you care?
Because, he said, stepping past her into the mist, you're about to do something very, very stupid. And I'd rather not die standing next to you when you do.
She stared after him, rain cooling the fire on her skin.
Wait, she called, but he was already gone — vanishing into the steam like he'd never been there at all.
For a long moment, Lyra stood alone, watching the faint light of the patrol orbs approaching.
Then she whispered to the night,
"Who the hell doesn't feel anything?
And somewhere deep inside, her heart — the one she'd sworn to bury — stirred for the first time in years.