(Third-Person Limited - Lysera, Age 7)
Prologue: The Day That Didn't Hurt, Until It Did
Some days announce themselves with ceremony. This one did not.
It did not begin with a ritual test or a reprimand or a silence that bent too sharply. Instead, it began with the gentle sound of slippers on polished stone and the feeling-slight, almost forgettable-that something was shifting under the surface of the world.
A small shift, yes. But even small tides can erode a coastline.
I. Cold Morning in the Observation Antechamber
The Maiden's Academy was awake before the sun. The hall was constructed of marble, designed to filter light and silence sound. Lysera sat on the Observation Bench, a narrow slab of pale marble carved into the wall beside the entryway. It was not a punishment seat-Mistress Veyra had been clear about that.
"Some daughters require closer entry supervision," she had said. A phrase so mild it left no room for protest. It merely carved a new, sharper boundary around her existence.
The room filled slowly with the warmth of morning torches. The air hung thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper. Girls arrived with attendants who smoothed their hair or straightened veils before leaving them at the threshold.
No one avoided Lysera. No one approached her, either.
Instead, they behaved as though she were part of the room-like an architectural feature the Shrine had placed there deliberately. A cold reminder that her very presence was now factored into the Academy's design.
A pair of older girls whispered near the window: "Is she the one Mistress Veyra keeps-assessing?" "No, the rumor is worse. Someone said her name's in the Shrine ledger." "Does that mean she's marked? Or-is she... chosen?"
The second girl shivered, as if the thought of Lysera being chosen by anything was somehow more frightening than the alternative.
Lysera looked down at her folded hands. The faint red marks from her hairpins still crisscrossed her scalp beneath her veil. Their whispers didn't sting. Confusion always sounded softer than accusation.
Nearby, two girls-Serin (small, fingers tracing invisible patterns, observing with a quiet empathy) and Mirelle (chatty, but her words died on her lips when she saw Lysera, paralyzed by fear of contamination)-watched Lysera from a distance. Not fearful. Simply unsure how to begin. The question of proximity was etched onto their faces.
Lysera wondered what that uncertainty felt like-having the desire to speak, but not the courage to take the first step. She filed the difference away: courage was simply the absence of calculation.
II. A New Configuration - The Rearranged Triads
When Mistress Veyra entered, her robe swept across the floor like a measured arc of authority. "Today," she announced, "your compositions will change."
A soft ripple passed through the children. Triads were rarely shifted mid-week. The shift indicated an urgency that was strictly administrative.
"Some dynamics," Veyra continued, "must be tested under new arrangements." Her poise was impeccable. Her meaning-opaque.
Lysera's new triad was Triad Four:
Serin, who startled easily but observed everything
Averra, a flame-conductor with a reputation for excelling at ritual heat channels
And Lysera, the anomaly the Shrine hadn't yet named out loud
Averra stiffened at Lysera's presence, unsure whether to show disdain or mercy. Serin offered a tiny, awkward smile-like a child extending a hand toward a shy animal.
Lysera's chest warmed a little. Not friendship. But a direction. A tiny compass point in the wilderness of the academy.
III. Theory Hall - Domestic Geometry
The Theory Hall was shaped like an amphitheater, with concentric rings of desks rising around a platform etched with copper lines. Today's lesson pulsed across the board:
DOMESTIC GEOMETRY OF RESOURCES - Allocation, Rotation, Conservation -
Mistress Veyra moved her baton across diagrams of food stores, candle inventories, estate workers, and liturgical supplies. "A household," she said, "is a living pattern. Its failures come not from chaos, but from miscalculations."
Lysera liked this. Patterns were quiet. They did not whisper about her.
While the other girls copied the example charts, Lysera adjusted the numbers. She reorganized supply flow so that the household required 6% fewer candles and 12% fewer work-hours, with no loss of function. It was small, but elegant.
Veyra paused beside her desk. She said nothing.
But she wrote on her slate in her tiny, surgical handwriting: "Cognitive irregularity - exceeds expected parameters." The smooth logic of the girl's mind was, in Veyra's eyes, a greater structural threat than a failed prayer.
The other girls watched Veyra watching Lysera.
Veyra straightened. She let out a small, quiet helaan napas. A human tremor in the rigid framework of her posture. "There are three kinds of daughters," she lectured calmly. "Those who follow patterns, those who replicate patterns, and those who create patterns."
A brief silence. "The last must be tempered carefully."
Every gaze in the room slid toward Lysera. Not hateful. Not mocking. Just-measuring.
As though she were a tool whose sharpness needed dulling.
IV. The Flame Corridor - A New Kind of Wrong (Inversion)
The class moved toward the Flame Corridor, a narrow hall lit by ritual lamps suspended from copper ribs in the ceiling. The lamps brightened for flame-bearers as they passed, a soft glow of acknowledgment.
Averra walked first. Every lamp she passed warmed to gold.
Serin walked next. Hers flickered modestly.
Lysera stepped into the corridor. And the lamps inverted.
Each flame pulled inward, collapsing into a trembling, bluish-white shape-like a flame trying to fold into a point of cold.
A girl gasped. The sound echoed unnaturally in the chilled corridor. "Why are they doing that?" "No... look at the sigils-they're bending inward."
Lysera froze mid-step. The lamps weren't recoiling. They were... protecting themselves.
Lysera felt a hollow truth settle: "I ruin things even when I don't touch them." If that is true... what am I allowed to touch? And will the world ever stop holding its breath around me?
V. Garden Interval - Life on the Terrace
Between lessons, the girls were released to the upper terrace garden. The air here was fresher, carrying the sound of chanting from the nearby Sons' Academy across the narrow river. The terrace itself was immaculate: manicured hedges, pale stone pathways, and copper-laced benches that seemed designed for contemplation, not play.
Lysera stood by the balustrade, absorbing the sensory inputs. Every gesture in this Academy was a controlled communication.
Above, on the balcony of the High Maiden Annex, Lysera caught sight of Elphira.
(The High Maiden Annex is the Elite Preparatory Wing of the Maiden Academy, primarily utilized for gifted students aged 9 to 12 to receive accelerated training in advanced rituals and noble etiquette. At only nine, Elphira had earned her spot in the exclusive Junior Ritualist Prep Program due to her flawless Flame Conduction. Her early placement was both an honor for the Asterion name and a clear political response to Lysera's anomaly.)
Elphira was smiling-a bright, unrestrained expression that Lysera realized she rarely saw at home. Her posture was relaxed, yet perfect; the kind of ease that only comes from knowing you are exactly where you are meant to be. Blush warmed her cheeks, sunlight caught the soft highlights in her hair, and genuine warmth radiated from her posture.
She was leading a small vocal drill. The tiny ritual flame hovering near the choir basin pulsed toward her-it practically enveloped her-embracing her as naturally as breath.
Lysera raised a hand, a small, involuntary gesture of connection. Elphira did not see. She was entirely focused on the ritual and the light that loved her.
And Lysera felt, with sudden, painful clarity, the cold mathematics of her world: There are places in the world that will never open for me. No matter how much I knock. The Flame chooses, and it chose her.
VI. A Forbidden Moment - Lysera Slips Away
During the transition between lessons, the hallway momentarily cleared. Lysera stepped into a small storage alcove lined with ceremonial candles. The alcove smelled faintly of burnt oil and fear. She shut the door.
She cupped her hands around a wick. "Just once," she whispered. "Please." The small word carried the full weight of her hidden desperation.
A small, hesitant spark bloomed- -but instead of catching fire, it warped into a cold pulse, like a heartbeat made of winter.
Lysera flinched. "Why won't you stay?" she whispered to the dead wick. The wick had no answer.
She then thought of the whispers she heard from Veyra's office. If they are safeguarding the world from me... then what guards me?
VII. The Summons - A Meeting Behind Closed Doors
At day's end, Mistress Veyra touched Lysera's shoulder. "Come." Her tone was unreadable.
They walked to the Administrative Chamber, a small, windowless space meant for documentation. A Shrine Sister stood-robes trimmed in deep crimson. A sealed black ledger rested on the table.
No one opened it. No one spoke Lysera's name aloud. But the presence of the ledger alone felt like a verdict waiting for ink.
The Sister inclined her head. "For some daughters," she said gently, "we apply extended observation."
Veyra added, her voice calm and controlled: "This is not punishment. It is... a necessary safeguard."
The phrase settled into Lysera like a stone dropped into deep water. Safeguard. Not for her. For the world from her.
Lysera bowed, though her vision had begun to blur at the edges. The red trim of the Sister's robes looked like a fresh wound. She felt, for the first time, that adults-not one, not two, but all of them-were aligning around an idea: She was a problem to be managed.
VIII. Balcony of Returning Light
Night. The Asterion estate was quiet, its lamps dimmed for evening devotions. A deep, systemic quiet that echoed the silence of the Flame. Lysera stepped onto her small balcony, her hair loose for the first time that day.
She lit a candle. The flame rose-thin, tall, wavering like a creature unsure whether to flee.
She wondered briefly what Dorian would say if he saw how the flame moved for her now. Probably something quiet. Probably something true.
She didn't look away. "If you won't speak to me..." she whispered, "...then I will learn the silence you fear."
The flame stretched- quivered- and held its shape.
Not acceptance. Not rejection. Recognition of something unnamed.
In the dark, Lysera's eyes reflected its trembling light- two silver mirrors studying a world that would try its hardest to study her first.