(Third-Person Limited — Lysera, age 5)
The first time Lysera noticed something truly strange about herself, it was morning in the family shrine.
The air smelled of pressed herbs and river clay—the scent Lady Maelinne always used when polishing the shrine lamps. Sunlight filtered through colored glass panes, scattering the room into quiet fragments of blue and ember-orange. Lysera liked those colors. They softened the world, made it feel kinder than it often was.
But today, the shrine felt different. It felt as though the room were listening.
Silent in a way that made the tiny hairs on Lysera's arms lift, as if the air itself held its breath.
She padded forward barefoot, Kaen wobbling behind her on chubby toddler legs. At two, he followed Lysera everywhere—believing, perhaps, that she pulled the world behind her like an invisible thread.
In the center of the shrine, the Hearth Flame rested in its low stone basin, bright and steady. It always swayed warmly for Maelinne, flickered gently for Elphira, and practically danced whenever Kaen pressed both palms together and declared, "Look at me!"
Lysera knelt beside it. She extended her small hand toward the flame. It should have leaned toward her—just slightly, just politely. Even a daughter born under uneasy omens was owed that much.
Instead, the flame bent— away.
As if turning its face aside in recoil.
Lysera blinked. "...It doesn't like me today," she whispered.
Kaen gasped, scandalized. "Bad fire!" He thrust his hand forward in protest. The flame leapt instantly, glowing bright and golden, crackling as though delighted.
Kaen squealed with victory. Lysera lowered her eyes. "Maybe it's sleepy," she murmured.
But she knew it wasn't.
I. A Priest's Visit
A junior priest entered moments later, his robes whispering across the floor. His gaze flicked from the flame to Lysera—and tightened, just slightly, around the edges.
It was that look again. The one she'd begun to recognize. The look adults gave her when she stepped into a room and brought a question they couldn't articulate.
"Lady Lysera," he said softly. "Still finding your harmony with the flame?"
Lysera clasped her hands behind her back. Kaen clung protectively to her sleeve.
"I didn't do anything," she said.
"That," the priest replied—too quickly— "may be the problem."
A breath sounded from the doorway. Sharp. Mildly reprimanding. Dorian.
Already tall for thirteen, already carrying the posture of a boy who understood the future weight of his house. He stepped inside with the quiet decisiveness of someone who had long stopped expecting the world to be fair.
He placed himself—almost casually—between Lysera and the priest.
"She is five," Dorian said evenly. "Not a disappointment to be evaluated."
The priest bowed his head. Irritation flickered beneath the gesture like a hidden ember. "My apologies, young lord."
Dorian didn't acknowledge it. He simply turned to Lysera. "Come," he said quietly. "I need you."
Lysera blinked. "...For what?"
"To stop Kaen from walking into the river again while I study." Kaen slapped Dorian's leg, indignant. "I won't walk in!" "You did last week," Dorian reminded flatly. "That was the river's fault," Kaen insisted.
A small smile tugged at Lysera's lips—soft, shy. Dorian extended his hand. She hesitated for a heartbeat. Then took it.
II. In the Upper Study
Dorian led them to the upper study overlooking the valley. The room smelled faintly of parchment and warm dust. Maps lined the walls—mountain passes, river routes, borders inked with precise care.
Dorian deposited Kaen on a cushioned seat with a wooden soldier. "Stay. Don't eat it." Kaen made no promises.
Dorian sat at his desk—ink, quill, and a boy's attempt at adulthood arranged before him. He began reviewing estate notes with too-heavy seriousness.
Lysera climbed into the chair beside him. She dangled her feet and watched him write. Quietly. Observing.
"...You're quiet today," Dorian said without looking up.
"You told me not to talk in the shrine," she replied.
He paused. "That's not what I meant."
Lysera tilted her head. "So what did you mean?"
Dorian leaned back slightly, rubbing the heel of his palm against his brow—something he'd begun doing often, as if responsibility was already a physical ache.
"You don't have to be silent," he murmured. "You just have to be careful." Something in his tone suggested he had learned that lesson far too young himself.
"I don't understand," Lysera said. "I know."
He resumed writing.
Lysera's gaze followed the ink line. He wrote with discipline—straight strokes, steady weight. But on the next line, his hand drifted, just a little.
Lysera squinted. "That part looks different," she whispered.
Dorian stopped. "...Different how?"
Lysera pointed a small finger. "The angle. It leans the wrong way."
He stared. It was true. His script had slipped. Only slightly—barely enough to notice. But she had noticed.
"...You saw that," he said quietly.
She tucked her hands into her sleeves. "Was I not supposed to?"
"No," Dorian said, softer than before. "You were exactly supposed to."
She looked uncertain. "Is it bad to see wrong things?" she asked.
"No," Dorian answered. Then—with a pause too heavy for a boy his age— "...just not always safe."
Lysera didn't know what that meant. But she understood the tone. Adults always spoke that way around her— as if she were a candle that might burn the wrong way.
Later, when they left the study, Dorian lingered. He looked at her—really looked. Not with fear. Not with duty. But with the beginning of recognition.
That night, when Lysera returned to her room, she found a small book on her bedside table. A primer. Letters, symbols, simple patterns. Dorian's handwriting marked the inside cover. He didn't mention it. Neither did she. But she touched the cover before sleeping—feeling, for the first time, the strange comfort of being seen.
III. Shadows in the Hallway
On their way to supper, they passed two servants whispering.
"—the flame still refuses her—" "—Lord Auremis pretends not to worry, but the Shrine will not forget—" "—a child born under that omen... who knows what she brings—"
Lysera stopped walking. Dorian placed a hand on her shoulder. Firm. Protective.
"Come," he murmured. She obeyed. But the words followed her all the way down the corridor.
IV. The Balcony at Dusk
That evening, she slipped onto the western balcony. The sky bruised into violet. The wind played with her hair. The world felt wide and cold and full of questions.
Dorian found her there, leaning on the stone rail. "You should be inside," he said gently.
"I wanted to feel the wind," she whispered. "It changes. And things... change with it."
Dorian stepped beside her. "You're not wrong," he said.
Lysera blinked up at him. He hesitated—then spoke with a soft heaviness: "I asked Father once why people speak differently around you."
Her breath caught. "He told me it was because you were born on a night of bad omens."
"Oh."
"That's what he said. But..." He exhaled slowly. "That's not the whole truth."
Lysera waited. Dorian looked at her for a long moment. Long enough that the wind seemed to pause around them.
"The truth," he said softly, "is that grown-ups fear what they cannot shape."
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "And you, Lysera..." His voice dropped to a vow. "...you cannot be shaped."
Lysera leaned against him—lightly, uncertainly, gratefully. In that moment, small as she was, she understood one thing:
The priests might watch her. The Shrine might judge her. The world might turn cold when she entered a room.
For now, she was not alone. For now.