Chapter 109 – Ladies Night (3)
(Lyra)
When Noelle said master, the word didn't snag on anything inside me.
It slid in and settled like it had always belonged there.
That should have bothered me.
Instead, my mind ran somewhere else entirely.
Back.
To a little house.
To my parents.
We were walking toward a dress shop, Noelle chattering about lace and feathers, Tamara swearing she'd burn any ruffles put on her body, and all I could think about was the first time I went home after the academy.
After him.
Erynd had only been at the academy for six months.
Half a year as a "special" student, and then he'd walked out with some advancement nobody had ever heard of before and left the rest of us behind with new training regimens, bruises, and a hundred unsent letters in our heads.
I'd spent those six months doing math in the dark.
Even with the scholarship, my parents still had to pay things: exam fees, uniform alterations, extra materials. "Small costs," the dean had called them, with the casual cruelty of someone who'd never had to count coins twice before buying bread.
I'd pictured my father's hands split and bleeding from extra shifts at the forge. My mother's back bent over endless baskets of laundry taken in for copper.
When the term ended and they finally gave us leave, I didn't take any fancy carriage from the academy's official line.
I paid out of my own pocket for a spot on the cheapest public one I could find. Wooden bench. Bad suspension. Every bump in the road felt like punishment for not sending more money home.
I had a bag of food at my feet.
Dried meat. Sweet buns. Fruit that wouldn't rot on the way.
It felt pathetic. Too little, too late.
I told myself I'd put it on the table and say:
Thank you. I know what you gave up. I'll make it worth it.
When I opened the door to our house, the first thing that hit me was the smell.
Stew. Real stew.
Not just boiled bones and hope. Meat. Herbs. Fresh bread cooling on the side board. A little dish of pickled vegetables that my mother only bought when things were better than usual.
Then they were there.
"Lyra!" my mother cried, and I barely had time to drop the food before she wrapped her arms around me. Warm. Whole. Not gaunt. Not sick.
My father followed, clapping me on the shoulder so hard I nearly stumbled.
"You look thinner," he said. "They not feeding you enough up there?"
"I—" I stammered. "I brought food."
I held up the bag like a shield.
They laughed.
"Put it down," my mother said. "We already cooked. We have enough now, thanks to Lord Erynd."
The name punched the air out of my lungs.
"Lord… who?" I managed.
"Erynd Milton," my father said, like it was obvious. "That boy who came with Dean Keith."
My stomach turned.
"Dean Keith… visited?" I said.
"Years ago," my mother said. "He came to talk about your scholarship. There was a young man with him. Blonde hair. Sharp blue eyes. Looked like he hadn't slept properly in a while."
That tracked.
My father went into the little bedroom, rummaged, and came back with a folded piece of parchment and a small pouch.
He handed me the parchment.
I recognized Erynd's handwriting immediately. Efficient, no flourishes, like he begrudged the ink.
But the header wasn't his.
It was the dean's.
As discussed with student Erynd Milton,
scholarship terms for candidate Lyra Feld are to be adjusted as follows:
– All initial fees are to be refunded to her guardians.
– Ongoing costs (materials, exam fees, incidentals) to be covered in full.
– Additional provision: a rotating academy guard detail is to be assigned to the Feld household for security.
Signed,
Dean Keith,
with special advisory request by E. Milton.
My fingers wanted to shake.
I looked up.
"The refund came first," my father said, lifting the pouch. It clinked. "We tried to save it. Thought we should be prudent, you know? Then the bandits came."
The room tilted.
"Bandits?" I repeated.
He nodded, mouth tightening.
"They've been getting bolder near the town," he said. "Taken cattle. Harassed travelers. The usual scum. We were walking back from market when three of them decided we looked interesting."
My mother's hand found his.
"We didn't even see them until they were close," she said softly. "We thought—"
"The guard was faster," my father cut in. "From the academy. Uniformed. Said he was part of a 'family protection initiative' for certain students."
He snorted.
"Didn't like being called an 'asset'," he said. "But I liked watching him break the bandit's wrist when he grabbed your mother's arm."
I could picture it.
Erynd, sitting somewhere in the dean's office, saying in that flat, patient tone that made people listen:
"Commoner families are going to get hit. You know how nobles are. Adjust the scholarship or I'll do it without you, and you won't like how."
Here I was, on a carriage, worrying about whether my parents were hungry, and he'd already rearranged the board.
He'd done it while we were still at the academy together.
He hadn't told me.
Of course he hadn't.
He'd just fixed it.
Quietly. Through Dean Keith. With signatures and guards and lines on paper that turned into men with swords on the roadside.
"I didn't want to distract you," my mother said gently. "You had exams. New friends. Stories."
"We thought we'd tell you when you came home," my father added. "Surprise. Looks like it worked."
Surprise.
I stared at the parchment.
At the words "special advisory request by E. Milton."
My throat felt tight.
That night, in my old room with its too-small bed and the crack in the ceiling I'd memorized as a child, I lay awake with the letter under my pillow.
I'd expected the mattress to feel thinner.
The blankets to be rougher.
Instead, everything felt… safer.
Because if bandits came again, someone was watching.
Because if some noble decided to "teach the commoner girl a lesson" by hurting her family, there was a name already on the defense.
His.
I pulled the blanket over my head and whispered into the fabric.
"I love you," I murmured.
It slipped out.
Honest.
Ugly.
Not girlish-crush love. Not the kind you wrote about in diaries with hearts.
A harsher thing.
The kind of love you gave to the hand that closed around your throat and pulled you out of the water.
"I love you," I said again, quieter. "You knew. You always know. You see… everything."
I thought about three mana cores.
Two small and black and shifting in his chest when I looked with magic.
About the way Melody sometimes hummed on his hip like someone else was breathing along the blade.
About the way he moved through the world like someone who'd seen it break a thousand times.
"Whatever you are," I whispered into the dark, "god, monster, both… I'm yours."
It should have scared me.
I just fell asleep clutching the parchment like a talisman.
***
"Lyra?"
Noelle's voice snapped me back to the present.
We were standing in front of a dress shop, its windows full of fabric and possibilities, and the echo of my own whispered "I love you" was still rattling around my skull.
"You spaced out again," she said. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," I lied.
Tamara eyed me.
"Thinking about him?" she asked.
"Always," I said.
They both groaned.
"Come on," Noelle said, grabbing our wrists. "Less cult behavior, more dresses. I want to see you two in things that make Erynd walk into a wall."
I let her pull me inside.
It was easier than explaining that "cult behavior" was probably an accurate description at this point.
***
(Tamara)
If you've never watched two battle maniacs try on dresses, you're missing out on a specific kind of comedy.
The shop was tasteful.
Soft lamps. Good mirrors. Dresses on racks instead of piles. A shopgirl whose job was "pretend three vaguely feral women are normal customers."
"No feathers," I said as soon as we walked in.
"Yes feathers," Noelle said immediately. "You promised ladies' night. That means I get to commit fashion crimes on both of you."
"I will burn them off my body," I warned.
"Test me," she said sweetly.
The shopgirl, to her credit, smiled like this was all part of the experience.
"If you're looking for something simple, we have plainer cuts as well," she said to me. "Deep colors suit you. Perhaps a blue?"
Traitor.
I let them shove a dark blue dress at me anyway.
The cut was simple. Long enough to be respectable, short enough that I didn't feel like I was drowning in fabric. It let my shoulders exist, which was non-negotiable.
I put it on in the changing room and stared at myself.
Still me.
Just… less like I'd crawled here from a battlefield and more like I'd chosen to appear in public.
I stepped out.
Noelle clasped her hands like she'd just watched a successful spell.
"Look at her," she told the shopgirl solemnly. "Our terrifying pyromaniac, pretending to be a person."
Lyra nodded.
"The boobs look good," she said.
"I hate both of you," I said.
I bought the dress.
Then Noelle dragged us to the back of the shop.
"Next," she declared, pointing like a general, "makeup."
The counter there was covered in small jars, sticks, little metal compacts. Colors, creams, powders. A tiny battlefield.
"What is all this," I demanded.
"Tools of social war," Lyra said. "Also known as makeup."
The shopgirl slid a slim pamphlet toward us.
"If you're unfamiliar," she said, "Erydine provides guides for beginners. Very easy to follow."
I looked at the cover.
A logo.
Neat typography.
Erydine.
"Erydine Company," Lyra said. "One of the merchant houses."
"Erydine," I repeated slowly. "As in…"
"As in someone refused to let the brand be literally 'Erynd,'" Noelle said. "So they smashed his name together with some other word and called it a day. Ethan said 'it tests well with consumers.'"
"Of course he did," I muttered.
Lyra tapped the pamphlet.
"Erynd talked to Dean Keith about more than scholarships," she said. "He laid groundwork for this too. Said if people see too many new things too fast, they break. Techo-shock."
She pronounced the unfamiliar word carefully.
"He ranted about it for an hour once," she added. "Something something 'don't drop railways, soap, and refrigeration on peasants in the same week.'"
"So we go slow," Noelle said. "Better soap first. Then better cloth. Then cold drinks. Then trains. Then makeup that doesn't poison people. By the time anyone realizes the world changed, they're already used to it and don't want to give the nice things back."
I grunted.
"Manipulative," I said.
"Effective," Lyra countered.
The shopgirl opened one of the compacts, showing me a soft, warm shade.
"If you like," she said, "we can show you how to use it. Just a little. It will even your skin, soften the shadows. You don't need much."
I let her dab it along my cheekbones, across my nose.
It felt like putting on extremely subtle armor.
When I looked in the mirror again, I saw… less exhaustion. Less "I watched a woman be electrocuted last night." More "I chose to be awake today."
"Not bad," I admitted.
"Told you," Noelle said smugly. "Let me do your eyes next."
"No," I said on reflex.
"Please?" she wheedled. "Just a little. Trust me."
"Last time you said 'trust me,' I ended up jumping off a roof," I reminded her.
"You landed," she said. "Growth."
Lyra folded her arms.
"Think of it as camouflaging dark circles," she said. "You don't want vultures in council to know when you haven't slept."
She had a point.
"Fine," I grumbled. "But if he laughs, I'm setting his notes on fire."
They both looked scandalized.
"That's going too far," Noelle said.
"Burn him, not the notes," Lyra added.
In the end, I walked out with four tiny pots, a brush, and a pamphlet explained in stupidly simple steps.
War paint.
For a different kind of war.
***
The food place was tucked away on a side street, hiding behind a modest sign that just said: Cold Things.
"We were in the desert yesterday," I reminded Noelle. "We don't need cold things in the capital."
"Yes we do," she said. "Shut up and follow me."
The inside was pleasantly cool.
Not academy-basement cool.
Engineered cool.
There was a cabinet along the wall, metal-framed, with glass panels showing chilled desserts inside. Drinks sat in rows, beaded with condensation. Fruit slices looked half-frozen, crystals catching the light.
The air had that crisp, dry edge I now associated with one specific kind of magic.
The girl behind the counter smiled.
"Welcome," she said. "Would you like to try our iced infusions? We use a licensed cooling array. Very stable."
"Licensed from who?" I asked, already suspicious.
"Erydine," she said. "They partnered with a… hm." She hesitated, as if searching for the right phrase. "A private workshop. The crest is there, if you're curious."
She pointed at the side of the cabinet.
I walked over.
Etched into the metal was a symbol.
At a glance, it looked like any merchant sigil: a stylized tree whose roots curved around a circle, intersected by a clean, angular mark that could be read as a rune or a letter.
To any random citizen, it was just a pretty logo.
To anyone from Yggdrasil, it was a slap in the face.
The tree's branches matched the pattern on some of our more discreet seals. The angle of the "rune" was the same as the little mark Erynd put in the corner of his absolute-final-version notes.
He'd hidden his fingerprints inside a brand.
Subtle enough to pass inspection.
Obvious enough that we could never pretend he wasn't here.
I huffed.
Of course.
Noelle ordered three drinks like she'd rehearsed it.
We sat at a tiny table.
I took a sip.
Cold. Sweet. Bitter in just the right way.
"Okay," I said. "Fine. This is witchcraft and I'll allow it."
Noelle smirked.
"See?" she said. "I know things."
"Where did you even find this place?" I asked. "You don't leave the base unless someone drags you."
She tilted her head, grin turning a shade sharper.
"My father told me about it," she said. "He supplies them with certain fruits. It's under Erydine's umbrella, through a… joint venture."
She wiggled her fingers toward the etched symbol.
"Guess who's on the other side of that little tree?"
I sighed.
"Of course," I said.
I took another sip.
The cold slid down my throat.
I leaned back in the chair.
"Realization," I announced.
"Uh-oh," Noelle said.
"Here we go," Lyra murmured.
"This was supposed to be our day," I said. "Ladies' night. No Master. No 'Lord Milton, savior of everything.' Just three girls and some questionable fashion decisions."
"Yes," Noelle said slowly.
"And yet," I continued, ticking off on my fingers, "we bought dresses from a company run by one of his Jarls. We painted our faces with products designed under his guidelines. We're drinking cold sugar out of a machine powered by arrays stamped with his invisible signature."
I gestured around the shop.
"We are," I concluded, "still inside his web."
Lyra watched me over the rim of her glass.
"Trains," I went on. "Cold cabinets. Scholarships. Guards. Slave rescues. Executed nobles. Makeup. Hats, probably. All of it with that stupid not-obvious-but-obvious mark hidden somewhere if you know how to look."
Noelle's smile turned small, but not unhappy.
"A comfortable web," she said.
Lyra's lips twitched.
"We walked into it," she said. "Eyes open."
I snorted.
"Feels like a trap," I said. Not angry. Just honest.
Noelle raised her glass.
"To the trap," she said.
Lyra raised hers too.
"To the idiot at the center of it," she amended.
I clinked mine against theirs.
"To the fact that even on ladies' night, we can't actually get away from him," I said.
I drank.
The cold washed the heat in my chest into something else.
Less like panic.
More like acceptance.
Corruption, maybe.
Erynd hadn't watched, unlike the god who just watch.
He'd intervened.
He'd adjusted.
He'd carved his mark into the metal of the world and into us.
I set the glass down.
"Next stop," Noelle said brightly, "feather hats."
"No," I said.
"Yes," she replied.
Lyra smirked.
"We're already trapped," she said. "Might as well suffer in style."
I laughed.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I could feel the pull of his gravity.
No trains. No towers. No him.
Just us.
And the world he'd already reshaped around our feet.