(Third-Person Limited — Lysera, age 4-5)
Lysera's earliest memory of curiosity was the sound of dripping water in the west corridor.
Not because it was unusual for old houses to leak—Asterion Manor sat close to the cliffside, where mist clung like second skin—but because the drops fell in a rhythm.
One... two... pause.
One... two... three... pause.
A pattern. Lysera liked patterns.
Most children her age traced shapes in dust or chased birds across the courtyard. Lysera traced intervals—the way one footstep sounded different from another, the way wind carved itself around corners, the way Kaen's excited babbles had a hidden cadence when he laughed.
She didn't know that this was what adults called thinking too deeply. She only knew the world had a quiet language, and it soothed her to learn it.
I. A Gentle Morning With Shadows Beneath
This morning smelled of polished cedar and cool stone. Sunlight slipped through lattice windows in uneven stripes. Lysera sat cross-legged on the rug, watching Kaen attempt to stack wooden blocks.
He failed gloriously. One block toppled sideways and knocked the rest down. He blinked at the ruin, stunned, then burst into triumphant laughter as if collapse was a victory.
Lysera leaned forward, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. "You put the big one first," she instructed, tapping the base of the rug. "So it won't fall."
Kaen frowned in concentration, took the block... and ate it. Lysera sighed. "You're hopeless."
But she pulled him into her lap anyway, resting her chin on his downy hair. He giggled, pleased with himself, pleased with her, pleased with the world for no reason other than existing.
Elphira entered then—soft steps, soft voice, soft everything. "Lysera," she said gently, "you shouldn't sit on the floor. Lady Maelinne says upper daughters should behave properly."
Lysera tilted her head. "Is the floor improper?"
Elphira bit her lip, unsure. "I don't know. But she said it with that voice she uses when she really means something."
Lysera nodded as if this explained everything. In a way, it did.
II. Lady Maelinne Tries Her Best
Maelinne always tried to be patient with Lysera, though her fear leaked through in small gestures—tilted mask of a smile, hands folded tightly as if guarding something fragile inside herself.
She entered the room now, skirts hushing over the floor. "There you are," she said softly. "I've been looking."
Kaen toddled into her skirts; she bent to lift him. Elphira followed, leaning into her side naturally, as if built for it. Lysera remained where she sat.
Maelinne hesitated—always that single heartbeat too long—before offering her hand to Lysera. "Come, darling. Lessons soon."
Lysera took it. Her small fingers were swallowed by Maelinne's warmer ones. The woman's grip was gentle, but there was a tension there Lysera felt even if she couldn't name it. As if holding something that might slip or burn her.
"Lady Maelinne," Lysera asked as they walked down the corridor, "does sitting on the floor make me a bad daughter?"
Maelinne froze mid-step. "No, Lysera," she whispered. "Never that."
"Then why must I not?"
Maelinne opened her mouth... closed it... opened it again, as if searching for a shape that would not wound. Finally: "Because this house watches everything. And it watches you more carefully than others."
"Why?"
Maelinne's lips tightened. "That is not your burden," she said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
III. The Junior Priest Who Noticed Too Much
Lessons were held in the small sunroom overlooking the courtyard. Today, a junior priest named Harel supervised instruction in flame-prayers for noble children.
Elphira sat perfectly still. Kaen crawled under the table. Lysera watched a dust mote dance in a ray of light, tracking its descent with unnatural precision.
Harel cleared his throat, reciting the lesson: "The Flame sees truth. The Flame shapes destiny. When you recite the verse, you align your heart to the path chosen for you at birth."
Elphira repeated it flawlessly. Kaen said, "Fame!" and hit the table with both palms.
Lysera, when prompted, spoke softly: "But if no priest saw me when I was born, how does the Flame know who I am?"
The room stilled. Harel stared at her with a look adults rarely used on children—shocked, wary, almost offended.
"Who told you that?" he demanded.
"No one," Lysera said honestly. "Everyone says the shrine knows who we are. But I came later, and the signs were ruined. So how does it know?"
Harel inhaled sharply, as if she had walked barefoot into holy fire. "Children need not think of such matters," he said too quickly, too tightly. "Repeat the verse."
Lysera opened her mouth. The verse did not come. Her small brows furrowed, not in defiance but confusion. She was trying to understand a contradiction adults had grown comfortable ignoring.
Harel exhaled a shaky breath and moved on, but he kept glancing at her—as though afraid her mind was a lit match in a room full of dry paper.
IV. A Small Act That Should Have Been Harmless
Later, when the lesson ended, Lysera lingered near the window. She placed Kaen's blocks on the ledge, arranging them by height, then by width, then by the way light hit their edges.
Elphira joined her. "What are you doing?" "Sorting." "Why?" "Because it feels right."
Elphira laughed softly. "You're strange." Lysera didn't mind. Strange was a shape she already fit.
But then Harel spoke behind them. "Lady Elphira," he said warmly, "you have a gift for grace. A blessing upon House Asterion."
He turned to Lysera. His expression shifted—softened, but not kindly. Like someone speaking to a child whose footsteps must be measured.
"And you..." He paused. "...must learn to quiet your mind. Curiosity without guidance leads only to ruin."
Lysera blinked. "I didn't ruin anything."
"You asked what should not be asked." "I just wanted to know." "Wanting is dangerous."
Lysera fell silent. Not because she understood. Because she saw something in his eyes: Fear. Not of her. Of what she represented.
V. In the Nursery, a Moment of Belonging
That evening, after dinner, Lysera sat beside Kaen's cradle while Elphira brushed her hair. Elphira hummed softly—a ritual Selene might once have performed, though no one spoke of it.
Lysera rested her cheek against Kaen's blanket. "Do you think I'm wrong?" she whispered to her sister.
Elphira's brushing paused only a moment. "No," she said. "Just different."
"Is different bad?"
Elphira considered this with all the solemn weight of a seven-year-old. "It's bad if priests think it is," she answered quietly. "But Kaen loves you. And Dorian does too. And I'm trying."
Lysera thought this over. The house might hesitate. Priests might judge. Adults might whisper.
But Kaen clung to her with unshakable devotion. Dorian shielded her instinctively. Elphira, gentle and uncertain, still reached for her hand. In a world already learning to doubt her, these three were certainty.
VI. The Last Line Before Sleep
When the candles dimmed, Lysera crawled into her small bed beside the window. Outside, the night wind murmured against the stone like a secret that had forgotten its words.
She whispered one of her own: "I will not be dangerous."
Not a vow. Not a prayer. A promise she did not yet know she could not keep.