Lyra ran the night the candles in the palace windows went out.

People said the rebels had been shouting words like freedom and new dawn when they dragged his parents away. Like it was a festival. Like a coup d’état could be pretty if you decorated it with speeches. Lyra didn’t remember the speeches as much as the sound of the doors splintering, and his mother’s last command—don’t look back—as if looking was the same as dying.

He did look back anyway. That was the first useless thing he did after they were gone.

By the time he reached the eastern road, his shoes were wet through, and his hands were shaking so badly he could hardly grip the strap of the little bag he’d stolen from a guardroom. He didn’t cry. Crying didn’t bring anyone back. Crying didn’t get you food, or a horse, or safety. It didn’t benefit anything.

When the distant relative’s county finally rose out of the fog, it didn’t look like safety either. The walls were clean and tall, the flags bright. Bright things always made him feel worse.

The gates opened after a long time of staring, whispering, and measuring him like he was a stray animal someone might kick for sport.

A person in a violet coat stepped out, almost dancing down the stone steps. They had soft curls pinned up and a brooch shaped like a silver swan. Their smile was huge and unafraid.

“My poor, poor Lyra,” they said, voice musical, and then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—she swept him into her arms.

Lyra froze. His body didn’t know what to do with kindness anymore.

“I am your uncle,” she added quickly, as if she’d forgotten a detail, “but today I am your aunt, because I woke up and decided the world would be prettier if I was. Do you mind?”

Lyra stared. He could have answered. He didn’t.

“Oh,” his uncle said, not offended, just thoughtful. “You don’t talk much now. That’s all right. Talking is overrated. People use it to lie. Come inside. I’ve already told the staff to stop staring like you’re a ghost.”

They didn’t stop, though.

As he walked behind his uncle through the entrance hall, Lyra felt the eyes. Nobles in the duchy had a way of staring without moving their faces. Like they’d learned to hate politely. A maid in a stiff cap dipped into a curtsy too late and too shallow, and when Lyra passed, she muttered something under her breath.

He heard it anyway.

“Rebel-bait.”

Lyra kept walking. He counted the tiles under his feet. One, two, three. Useful. Numbers didn’t change. Numbers didn’t die.

His uncle led him to a guest wing with tall windows and pale curtains that fluttered like nervous hands. “You can take whatever room you like,” she chirped. “Preferably one without a draft. Unless you enjoy suffering, in which case I can arrange a very dramatic draft.”

Lyra didn’t respond. He picked up the smallest room.

That night, he lay in a bed too soft to feel real and listened to the county breathe. Somewhere below, laughter echoed. His uncle’s laugh—bright, careless, as if grief was a story that happened to other people.

Lyra didn’t hate that laugh. He only filed it away.

Benefit: The uncle is supportive.

Cost: the duchy isn’t.

On the second day, they paraded him into a dining hall full of minor nobles and bored-looking ladies. Someone clinked a spoon against a cup, calling attention like Lyra was an exhibit.

“Aether’s orphan,” a young lord said loudly, smiling like a knife. “How fortunate. Our duchy will be blessed by tragedy.”

Someone else giggled.

Lyra stared at his plate. He did not move. He did not blink much. He hadn’t smiled since his parents died. Smiling felt like cheating on their memory.

His uncle’s chair scraped back. “Darling,” she said sweetly to the young lord, “if you ever speak about my nephew like that again, I will personally have you dressed in feathers and displayed on the roof as a new weather vane. We are a coastal county. Wind is important.”

The table went silent, then awkwardly laughed because people always laughed when they were scared of someone with power.

Lyra watched his uncle sit down again, still smiling.

Benefit: she protects me.

Cost: they will resent me more for it.

That evening, back in his room, Lyra pulled out the thin booklet he’d stolen from the palace library before running. The cover was cracked. The pages smelled like dust and old ink.

Minor Celestial Summonings: A Guide for the Desperate and the Dramatic.

He’d read it once without understanding. He’d read it twice and underlined lines until the paper tore. The third time, he started collecting what it asked for: chalk made from ground bone (he used a bit of old ivory from a broken comb), salt (easy), and a “token of sincere longing.”

Longing was easy. Longing was all he had left.

The first summoning failed. The chalk circle smudged when his hand shook.

The second failed. The candle went out, and the room became too cold.

The third failed. And the fourth. The fifth, the sixth, the seventh.

On the eighth, his nose bled onto the page. He wiped it without emotion.

On the ninth, he heard a sound like wings in a dream, and then nothing.

On the tenth, the salt line cracked, and he had to start over, even though his fingers were raw.

He didn’t cry. Crying wasn’t useful.

On the eleventh attempt, he drew the circle perfectly. The symbols looked almost alive in the candlelight. Lyra placed his hands flat on the floor inside the ring. He didn’t pray like a child. He demanded like a prince who had nothing left to lose.

“Come,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse from disuse, and the word came out like it hurt. “You promised.”

The candle flame stretched upward, taller than it should be, brightening into a white spear. The air thickened as if the room was filling with invisible water. For a heartbeat, Lyra couldn’t breathe.

Then something landed—lightly, absurdly—inside the circle.

A boy, or a man, or something between, with hair like spilled sunlight and wings folded behind him as if they were an afterthought. His eyes were too blue. Too alive. He looked around the tiny bedroom and grinned.

“Wow,” the seraph said, tone delighted. “Eleven times? That’s commitment. Most people give up after, like, two—”

He stopped. He noticed Lyra’s face.

“Oh,” the seraph said softly, smile fading into something careful. “You’re… little.”

Lyra stood up. His knees were trembling, but he made them behave. “You said you’d watch over me.”

The seraph blinked, then pointed at himself as if surprised to be accused. “Me? I mean, I do watch over people sometimes, but—wait, you’re Lyra. Lyra of Aether. The—” His voice dropped. “The prince.”

Lyra didn’t nod. He didn’t need to. The seraph’s eyes flicked to the book and the dried blood on the corner of the page.

“Oh no,” the seraph said, horrified now. “Oh no, no, no. You shouldn’t have done this alone. You could’ve hurt yourself. You did hurt yourself.”

Lyra’s fingers curled. “You didn’t come when I was hurt the first time.”

The seraph flinched, like the words were physical. Then he forced a smile back, too bright, too fast. “Okay. So. Small misunderstanding. Guardian assignments are complicated, and sometimes messages—”

Lyra stepped closer to the circle’s edge. The air shimmered where the boundary was held. “You’re here now.”

“Yes,” the seraph said, trying to make it lighter. “And good news, I’m very good at being here. I’m like… a professional here-person. Is there food? Do you have food? Mortal food is so weird. It’s like you chew it, and then it just becomes you. That’s terrifying and kind of cool.”

Lyra didn’t laugh. He watched the seraph like he’d watch a weapon being tested.

“I want you to serve me,” Lyra said.

The seraph’s smile went stiff. “I serve the Light.”

Lyra’s eyes didn’t change. “I summoned you. The circle holds you. That means you can’t leave.”

The seraph looked down at the chalk line, then back at Lyra. His optimism didn’t break exactly, but it bent. “You’re twelve,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You’re supposed to be trading wooden swords with other children and arguing about bedtime, not… binding angels.”

“I don’t have bedtime anymore,” Lyra said. His voice was flat, practiced. It was the voice he used when he talked to himself in his head. “My parents are dead.”

The seraph’s wings twitched. He looked like he wanted to reach through the boundary and hug him, but he didn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was afraid.

Lyra used that.

“I want revenge,” Lyra said. “On the rebels who staged the coup. And on the nobles here who think I’m something to spit on.”

The seraph’s face went pale in the candlelight. “No,” he said immediately, like it was a reflex. “Absolutely not. I can’t help you hurt people. I won’t.”

Lyra tilted his head. He felt nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Only the shape of the problem.

“You won’t,” Lyra repeated. “But you also won’t leave.” He gestured to the ring to the symbols. “You can stand there forever, then. Until you fade.”

The seraph swallowed. “That’s… not nice.”

Lyra’s voice didn’t rise. “Nice isn’t useful.”

Silence sat between them. The candle crackled.

The seraph tried a different angle, because he seemed like the sort of being who always believed there was a different angle. “What if,” he said, forcing cheer, “I help you with protection? With safety? With… making friends?”

“I don’t need friends,” Lyra said. “Friends didn’t stop the rebels.”

The seraph winced again. “Okay. Okay. Conditions, then.” He held up a hand, like a teacher bargaining with a stubborn student. “I will not assist in murder. I will not assist in torture. I will not assist in anything that makes you into the thing you hate.”

Lyra considered. Revenge didn’t have to be blood. Fear could work. Ruin could work. Exposure could work. “You will help me bring them down,” Lyra said.

The seraph exhaled, relieved to find a crack. “Bring to justice,” he corrected, quickly. “Justice, Lyra. We can find proof. We can reveal lies. We can protect you while you gather allies. That is… that is allowed.”

Lyra’s gaze remained empty. “And the nobles here?”

The seraph hesitated. Then he smiled again, a little wicked this time, like sunlight deciding to be mischievous. “I can humble them without harming them,” he said. “That, I’m excellent at.”

Lyra didn’t smile. “Show me.”

The seraph’s eyes gleamed. “There’s a maid outside your door,” he whispered. “She’s been listening. Do you want a prank?”

Lyra paused. He hadn’t expected the seraph to offer something so quickly. “Yes,” he said, because the maid had called him rebel-bait. Because humiliation was a language everyone in this duchy spoke.

The seraph rubbed his hands together like a child planning trouble. “Okay, so—harmless. No injuries. No permanent damage. Just… mental unraveling.”

He lifted two fingers, and the candlelight bent toward them like it was curious.

Outside the door, the maid gasped.

Lyra heard it through the wood: a wet, strangled sound, like someone swallowing their own breath.

Then the maid began to scream.

Not a normal scream. Not anger or fear. A scream like reality had become wrong.

Lyra opened the door.

The maid was on the floor, crawling backward, eyes wide and shining. She pointed at the corridor, at nothing.

“There’s—there’s mirrors, ” she shrieked. “Mirrors in the air! I can see myself everywhere! And I’m smiling in them— I’M SMILING—”

She slapped at empty space as if glass was surrounding her. “Stop looking at me! Stop copying me!”

Lyra looked down the hallway.

There was nothing there. Just torchlight and shadows and perfectly normal stone.

The seraph, still inside the circle, grinned like this was the funniest thing he’d ever done. “I gave her a little halo-vision,” he whispered proudly. “Humans hate seeing themselves too much. It’s a whole thing.”

Lyra watched the maid convulse into sobs, clawing at her own cheeks like she could scrape her reflection off.

The seraph’s grin faltered.

“Oh,” he said, quieter, surprised. “I thought she’d just… run away screaming. Not… this.”

Lyra stared at the maid until she was dragged away by two guards, still shouting about mirrors and smiling faces. The hallway smelled faintly of sweat and fear.

He turned back to the seraph. “You said harmless.”

The seraph’s optimism scrambled to repair itself. “It is harmless,” he insisted, though his voice wasn’t as confident now. “It’ll wear off. She’ll be fine. Probably. Eventually. I mean—she’ll definitely be alive.”

Lyra stepped closer to the circle again. His shadow fell across the chalk symbols. “You will do what I ask,” he said. “With your conditions.”

The seraph swallowed and nodded, wings drooping a little, like a guilty curtain. “Justice,” he said again, as if saying it would make it true. “Not revenge.”

Lyra’s face didn’t change.

In his head, he revised the plan.

Justice was a word the bright used to describe revenge that sounded clean.

He could work with that.

“Then we start,” Lyra said. “Tomorrow.”

And for the first time since Aether fell, the room felt like it had purpose—sharp as chalk, bright as a candle that refused to go out.

By morning, the maid’s screams had turned into a story.

Stories in a duchy spread faster than fire, because everyone needed something to warm their hands over. Servants whispered in the laundry room. Guards repeated it while pretending they weren’t scared. Nobles lifted their brows and asked if the “little Aether wraith” was practicing witchcraft.

Lyra listened to none of it. He sat at his desk, counting the ways the duchy could be used. Counting who hated him openly and who hated him quietly. He didn’t need to *hear* their hate to know it existed.

Behind him, inside the chalk circle, the seraph paced like a caged sunbeam.

“This is unacceptable,” the seraph announced for the tenth time, as if saying it louder would change the laws of summoning. “A circle? Honestly. You could’ve at least made it pretty. Some flowers. A ribbon. A little snack tray.”

Lyra didn’t turn around. “Stop talking.”

“I can’t,” the seraph said cheerfully. “It’s a gift. Also a curse. Depends who you ask.”

Lyra finally faced him. In daylight, the seraph looked even more impossible—wings too white, skin too bright, like he belonged in stained glass and not in a dusty guest room in a hostile county.

“You said you’d help,” Lyra said. “But you can’t walk out of this room without everyone seeing you.”

The seraph tilted his head. “So I’ll… not do that.”

Lyra’s stare stayed flat. “Then you’re useless.”

The word landed like a pebble in water. The seraph blinked, then smiled, as if he’d been challenged to a game.

“Ah,” he said. “We’re doing strategy. Fine. I’ll wear a human shape.”

Lyra frowned. “You can do that?”

“Of course,” the seraph said, offended on behalf of his own celestial résumé. “I’m a seraph. I can set myself on holy fire if I want. I just don’t, because it ruins fabric.”

He stepped to the edge of the circle and held out his hands. Light pooled around his fingers—soft at first, then thickening like honey. His wings shivered and folded inward, dissolving into his back as if they’d never existed. The glow faded, leaving a boy—no, a young man, tall and too graceful, wearing the same expression as a person who has never once been embarrassed in his life.

Lyra watched, face unmoving, but something in his chest tightened in a way he didn’t have a category for.

The seraph flicked his hair like he was on stage. “Better?”

“You need a name,” Lyra said.

The seraph tapped his chin dramatically. “I have… many. But humans always trip over the old ones. Hmm.” He leaned forward, eyes bright. “Call me *

Caelum.”

Lyra repeated it in his mind. *Caelum*. Sky. It suited him, annoyingly.

“Caelum,” Lyra said aloud, voice quiet and unused. “You will act like my friend.”

Caelum beamed. “Oh, I can do friend. I can do friend so hard. I can do friend professionally.”

“Stop,” Lyra ordered.

Caelum, with the seriousness of someone promising not to breathe, said, “I will stop… later.”

They left the room together. Lyra walked a step ahead. Caelum drifted along beside him like he owned the hallway.

Servants stared anyway. Not at Lyra this time—at the beautiful stranger with the bright eyes and the grin that looked like trouble.

Caelum waved at a passing footman. “Hello! You’re doing great. Keep walking. Don’t fall. That would be embarrassing.”

The footman nearly did fall.

Lyra’s uncle was in the morning salon, surrounded by sunlight and trailing ribbons, wearing a dress the color of lilacs and a scandalous amount of glitter. She was spinning in place with a cup of tea in her hand as if balance was optional.

When she saw Lyra, she clasped her hands. “My darling! You came down without being dragged! I’m so proud I could weep into my pastries.”

Lyra didn’t answer. He sat down on the edge of a chair and stared at the tea set like it might attack him.

His uncle’s eyes slid to Caelum. “Oh?”

Caelum bowed with theatrical perfection. “Good morning. I’m Caelum.”

His uncle’s smile widened into something delighted and dangerous. “A friend?”

“A—” Caelum glanced at Lyra, as if waiting for the correct script.

Lyra said nothing.

Caelum decided for himself. “Yes. Absolutely. His dearest friend. His only friend. His shining companion who will—”

Lyra’s gaze cut toward him like a blade. Caelum only grinned harder, like being threatened was fun.

His uncle clapped once. “Wonderful. Lyra needs someone who isn’t terrified of his silence. Sit, Caelum. Drink tea. If you poison it, at least be tasteful.”

“I’m very tasteful,” Caelum promised. “If I ever kill someone, it will be in an elegant way.”

Lyra’s uncle paused mid-pour, blinking. “Oh.”

Lyra looked at Caelum. “Don’t say that.”

Caelum leaned toward him, voice bright, not pitying, not careful. “Why not? It’s honest. I’m joyful. I’m helpful. I’m also very capable of violence if it becomes necessary. Those things can coexist.”

Lyra didn’t know what to do with that. Most people looked at him like he was breakable. Caelum looked at him like he was interesting.

His uncle recovered first, lifting her cup. “Well then. Cheers to friendship and tasteful murder.”

Caelum lifted his cup too. “Cheers.”

Lyra did not lift his. He watched the steam curl upward.

...****************...

Downstairs, in the servants’ corridor, the maid from last night—Mara—held her hands tight in her apron pockets so no one could see the tremor.

She was supposed to be recovering. She was supposed to be grateful she wasn’t dead. She was supposed to keep her head down.

Instead, she marched into the private chambers of Lord Edric Vane like she owned the place.

Edric was young, bored, and cruel in the way pretty things often are. He reclined on a chaise with a book he wasn’t reading, one leg dangling, shirt half-unbuttoned like he wanted admiration more than air.

Mara curtsied deeply. “My lord.”

Edric looked her over. “You’re the one who screamed all night.”

Mara’s eyes flashed. “Because the ex-prince is playing at sorcery. He thinks he can come here and be treated like a jewel. I wanted to put him back in his place.”

Edric’s mouth curved. “Did you.”

“I tried,” Mara admitted, voice turning soft, persuasive. “But I need help. He’s brought a… friend. A handsome one.”

Edric’s interest sharpened, like a hook catching cloth. “Handsome?”

“Glowing,” Mara said, choosing the word carefully. “The kind that makes even the footmen trip over themselves.”

Edric sat up. “And you want to humiliate them.”

Mara stepped closer, letting her voice turn sweet. “Don’t you, my lord? Just a little. Just enough so everyone remembers who this duchy belongs to.”

Edric smiled, completely seduced by the idea—and by her. “Tell me what you need.”

Mara lowered her eyes, hiding the madness still buzzing behind them. “A party,” she whispered. “A small gathering. Something public. Something they can’t refuse.”

Edric laughed softly. “Oh, Mara. You’re wicked.”

“I learned from the best,” she said.

...****************...

For now, life pretended to be normal.

Tea happened at the same hour. Music floated from the practice hall. Letters arrived with wax seals and bad news in polite handwriting. Lyra moved through it all like a shadow that refused to fade.

Caelum, however, treated the duchy like it was a playground built specifically to tempt him.

On the third afternoon, Lyra found him in the courtyard with his uncle, both of them laughing.

His uncle had grabbed Caelum’s hands and was teaching him to dance—wiggling, spinning, stepping too close, stepping away, clapping once like the world should clap back.

“Loosen your shoulders!” his uncle scolded joyfully. “You dance like you’re marching into war.”

Caelum nodded with profound seriousness. “I am marching into war. A war against stiffness.”

They spun again. Caelum’s laugh rang out, too bright, too alive.

Lyra stood at the edge of the stone path, arms at his sides, face blank. He watched them like he was observing a ritual from a distance.

His uncle called out, “Lyra! Come dance!”

“No,” Lyra said. One word, flat.

Caelum bounced over anyway, hair slightly messy, eyes sparkling. “Come on. Just one step. If you hate it, I’ll stop.”

Lyra looked at him. “Stop your nonsense.”

Caelum leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “I can’t. It’s my sacred duty as your dearest friend.”

“I didn’t say dearest.”

“You didn’t say not dearest,” Caelum replied instantly, delighted with himself.

Lyra turned his gaze away. His face stayed cold, but something inside him shifted—an irritation that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Like warmth pressing against a window from the outside.

His uncle swept closer, breathless with joy. “You’re both handsome enough to ruin reputations,” she declared, like it was an observation about the weather. “Tragic boy prince and his bright, ridiculous companion. The duchy will choke.”

Lyra didn’t react.

Caelum did. He looped an arm—too casually, too familiarly—around Lyra’s shoulders.

Lyra stiffened. He didn’t shove him away. He only stood there, letting the contact happen like a fact.

Caelum’s voice stayed light. “See? You didn’t explode. Progress.”

Lyra murmured, so quietly it was almost not there, “Don’t touch me.”

Caelum’s arm loosened, but he didn’t move away fully. “Okay,” he said, still smiling. “Not now.”

Around them, servants watched with narrowed eyes. Nobles passing by paused, whispering behind fans. Lyra could feel the humiliation hanging in the air already, waiting for a proper stage.

He left early, without a word, because staying would gain him nothing.

That night, in his chamber, Lyra sat by the window. The county lights glittered outside like false stars.

Caelum’s laughter from earlier replayed in his head, irritating and bright. His uncle’s dancing footsteps. The way Caelum had said dearest friend like it was a joke but also like it could become true if repeated enough.

Lyra opened his notebook and wrote two columns, neat and calm.

REBELS.

DUCHY NOBLES.

He underlined both.

Then he paused, pen hovering, and wrote a third thing beneath, smaller.

CAELUM.

Not an enemy. Not an ally. Not yet categorized.

Lyra’s lips didn’t smile, but his eyes—cold as winter glass—gleamed with something close to mischief.

Tomorrow, he decided, they would start moving pieces.

Lyra decided the rules on the fourth morning.

He rose early, dressed himself without calling a servant, and braided his own cloak tie with fingers that didn’t shake anymore. The palace had taken softness out of him. The duchy would not be allowed to take competence too.

Caelum lounged across the window seat, legs draped like he was an ornament someone had paid too much for.

“What’s today’s plan?” Caelum asked, bright-eyed. “We could go intimidate a priest. Or steal something symbolic. Or learn how humans do that thing where they pretend to be friends while poisoning each other.”

Lyra didn’t look up from the papers spread across his desk. “You’re going to the kitchens.”

Caelum blinked. “The… kitchens.”

“Yes.”

“To do what.”

Lyra tapped a list with the blunt end of his pencil. “Ask what they serve at Lord Edric Vane’s gatherings. Who supplies the wine. Who delivers the pastries. Learn names.”

Caelum sat up, scandalized. “You want me to become a gossip.”

“You want to be useful,” Lyra said. His voice didn’t rise. It never needed to.

Caelum’s mouth twisted, but his eyes sparkled—he always looked most alive when being ordered into something ridiculous. “Fine. I will infiltrate the kitchens. I will befriend the onions. I will learn their secrets.”

Lyra didn’t react.

Caelum hopped to his feet. “Also,” he added, as if remembering, “you should eat.”

“I did.”

“You had three bites and a stare.”

Lyra’s pencil paused. For half a second he considered telling Caelum to stop noticing things.

Instead, he said, “Go.”

Caelum saluted—badly, on purpose—and spun out of the room like a happy disaster.

Lyra exhaled once. Quiet. Measured.

He didn’t need an angel hovering over him every hour. He didn’t need a guardian who kept touching his shoulder like a promise. He needed information. Leverage. Proof. Steps. The duchy liked to humiliate him publicly; that meant the duchy liked audiences . Audiences could be turned.

So Lyra went to the library alone.

He asked for county records. He asked for guest lists. He asked for the names of rebel sympathizers that had been quietly invited into salons since Aether fell. He did it politely. Coldly. Like a child playing at adulthood, except he wasn’t playing.

People hated him for it. Their hate was a tool too.

By midday, the invitation arrived exactly as he’d expected.

A footman appeared with a silver tray and a sealed envelope. The wax stamp belonged to House Vane—stylized vines curling around a laughing mask.

Lyra read it once, expression unchanged.

A “small gathering,” tonight. Music. Tea. A toast to “new friendships.”

A trap, written in gold ink.

Lyra folded the letter and placed it on his desk like it was an ordinary appointment.

When his uncle breezed in—wearing sea-green silk and a hat with feathers that looked like it had fought a bird and won—Lyra handed her the invitation without a word.

She read it, and her smile sharpened.

“Edric,” she said, as if tasting something sour. “He’s a child in a man’s coat.”

Lyra said, “We should go.”

His uncle’s eyes softened—briefly, just briefly, a warmth that didn’t try to force him into being okay. “Only if you want to.”

Lyra met her gaze. “I want to see what they do.”

Her expression turned bright again, dangerous-bright. “Then we go, darling. And if they try to humiliate you, I’ll make them dance until their knees beg forgiveness.”

Lyra didn’t smile.

But something inside him settled. Support was not comfort. Support was position . His uncle was a wall with perfume on it—still a wall.

That evening, Caelum returned with flour on his sleeve and the triumphant air of someone who’d survived a heroic quest.

“I have intel,” Caelum announced. “Also, humans put everything in butter. It’s amazing.”

Lyra didn’t ask how butter related to intel.

Caelum leaned over the desk, whispering as if the books might overhear. “Edric is hosting in the western salon. Mara has been fluttering around like a moth that wants to set itself on fire. There will be… a game.”

“A game,” Lyra repeated.

“Yes,” Caelum said, delighted and vaguely offended. “A ‘party game.’ It involves truth, dares, and humiliating the newest guest. You, obviously. Humans are so consistent.”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “And you?”

Caelum smiled. “I’m invited too. Apparently I’m ‘interesting.’”

Lyra nodded once. “You’ll go.”

Caelum blinked. “That’s it? No lecture? No forbidding me from doing something stupid?”

“You will do something stupid either way,” Lyra said. “So do it where I can see it.”

Caelum’s grin returned, full force. “I love when you’re mean. It’s efficient.”

Lyra looked away fast enough that it could pass as indifference.

It wasn’t.

...****************...

Lord Edric Vane’s western salon was a room built for cruelty.

Tall windows. White drapes. A small stage for musicians. Chairs arranged like spectators at a performance. The air perfumed with flowers that smelled too sweet—sweetness as disguise.

Edric lounged near the hearth, laughing too loudly. His pretty face was animated in the way children’s faces were animated when they were sure the adults would let them get away with it.

Mara stood at his shoulder in her maid’s uniform, eyes bright, lips curved with self-satisfaction. When she saw Lyra enter, she dipped into a curtsy that was technically perfect and emotionally insulting.

Lyra walked past her as if she were a lamp.

Caelum walked beside him, beaming at the crowd like he thought they’d gathered to applaud.

“Oh, wow,” Caelum murmured. “So many humans in one room. This is either a party or a sacrifice.”

“Caelum,” Lyra said quietly.

“What? I’m being friendly,” Caelum replied, and then—loudly, to the room—“Hello! Thank you for inviting us! You all look like you own too many mirrors.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the nobles—some amused, some sharp.

Edric’s eyes lit up. “You’re bold,” he said, sitting forward. “I like bold.”

Caelum walked straight to him with the confidence of someone who had never needed permission. “I like shiny things,” he replied. “You’re… medium shiny.”

Lyra heard the snorts, the titters, the offended murmurs. Edric’s smile twitched—he didn’t know whether he’d been complimented or insulted, and the confusion made him childish again.

His uncle entered behind them, sweeping in like a stage curtain. “Edric,” she sang. “I adore what you’ve done with the room. It looks like a place where reputations go to die.”

Edric stood, performing a bow. “Your Grace. We’re honored.”

His uncle’s smile never wavered. “I’m sure you are.”

Lyra took a seat without being invited. Caelum followed—then stood immediately again, distracted by a tray of pastries.

“Are those little fruit tarts?” Caelum asked the nearest servant with genuine awe.

The servant stared, unsure whether to answer.

“They are,” Lyra’s uncle said briskly, saving the poor man. “Caelum, don’t flirt with the food.”

Caelum placed a hand over his heart. “I flirt with everything. It’s my nature.”

Lyra watched Mara.

She was watching him back. Not with hatred alone—there was something else in her eyes too, something hungry and jittery, like she’d been awake too long.

Edric clapped his hands. “All right! We’ll play a game.”

People settled in with eager discomfort. This was what they’d come for: sanctioned cruelty, dressed as entertainment.

Edric’s gaze landed on Lyra. “Since you’re our guest of honor—”

Lyra’s voice cut in, calm. “I’m not.”

Edric laughed anyway. “You’ll start. We’ll play ‘Candor.’ You answer a question truthfully, or you perform a dare.”

Lyra didn’t move. “Ask.”

A murmur—surprise at his compliance.

Edric’s eyes narrowed, pleased. He leaned forward like a boy about to poke a wounded animal. “Do you still think you’re a prince?”

The room held its breath.

Lyra looked at Edric. Looked at the laughing mask on the wax seal in his mind. Looked at Mara, who leaned in as if she wanted to drink his answer.

“I think,” Lyra said evenly, “that titles are paper. Power is not.”

A silence, then a few uncertain laughs.

Edric blinked, thrown off script. “That’s not— It’s not a real answer.”

“It’s the truth,” Lyra said.

Mara’s mouth tightened. Her fingers twitched at her apron.

Edric recovered with a grin too bright to be stable. “Fine. Then a dare. Stand up and—” He glanced at Mara, and she tilted her head, whispering into his ear. His expression turned gleeful. “—and apologize to this duchy for bringing your tragedy here.”

The nobles leaned in. They loved apologies. They loved kneeling.

Lyra rose smoothly.

His uncle moved—just a fraction—like she might stand too.

Lyra didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He placed both hands lightly on the back of his chair and looked at Edric.

“I won’t,” he said.

Edric’s face flushed, sudden and petulant. “Then you forfeit.”

Lyra’s voice stayed gentle. “What do I lose?”

Edric smiled with childish excitement. “Dignity.”

Caelum, chewing a tart, said with his mouth half-full, “Oh, no. Not dignity. That’s the one thing humans totally have all the time.”

A few people laughed despite themselves.

Edric’s gaze snapped to him. “You. You’re too loud.”

Caelum wiped his fingers delicately on a napkin. “Yes.”

Edric’s nostrils flared. “I dare you to—” he started.

“No,” Lyra said.

The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It landed like a hand closing around a throat.

Edric stared. “Excuse me?”

Lyra’s eyes stayed empty. “This game is designed to humiliate. You invited me for spectacle. If you want a performance, charge admission.”

A murmur raced through the room—outrage, interest, amusement.

Edric’s cheeks went red. “You think you’re clever.”

“I know I am,” Lyra replied.

Caelum’s face lit with delight, like Lyra had just done a magic trick. “Oh, that was good,” he whispered loudly. “That was very good.”

Mara’s lips parted. For a moment her expression wasn’t smug anymore—it was strained, like she was listening to something behind the walls.

Edric stood up too quickly. “Fine,” he snapped. “If you won’t play, we’ll make you.”

His uncle rose like a queen standing for judgment. “Sit down, Edric.”

Edric hesitated—his childishness clashing with the reality of rank.

His uncle’s smile turned sweet as poison. “I will not watch my nephew be baited in my own county.”

Edric’s eyes flicked to the crowd, searching for backup like a boy searching for his friends on a playground. He found none brave enough to challenge the Duchess directly.

Mara stepped forward, voice soft. “Your Grace, it’s only a harmless game.”

His uncle tilted her head. “Is it?”

Mara’s gaze slid to Lyra again. Something glimmered there—determination and something frayed. “The ex-prince needs reminding,” she said, and her voice shook just slightly, “that he’s not the sun.”

Caelum leaned toward Lyra, whispering with cheerful curiosity. “Is she… okay?”

Lyra didn’t answer. He watched Mara’s hands. Watched the tiny tremor he’d seen in the morning staff. Watched her eyes dart as if reflections still lived there.

He thought, distantly: small fry. A servant with a grudge. A harmless test.

Lyra turned back to Edric. “Is this all you have?”

Edric’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked suddenly young—too young to be holding this room’s attention. “You—” he began, and then, helplessly, “You’re ruining it.”

Caelum laughed, delighted. “He is ruining it. He’s very good at it.”

Edric’s face twisted. “Get out,” he snapped, not to Lyra exactly—more like to the universe.

His uncle stepped closer to Lyra, placing herself half in front of him without making a show of it. “We will,” she said lightly. “And we’ll take the air with us. It’s stale in here.”

Lyra turned to leave.

Caelum followed, still grinning, waving at the musicians. “Lovely music! You should try something less… funeral next time.”

They reached the salon doors—

—and Mara was no longer at Edric’s shoulder.

Lyra paused. He hadn’t heard her leave. He hadn’t seen her slip away. She’d simply… vanished, like a thought interrupted.

Edric noticed too, looking around with an irritated frown. “Mara?” he called, annoyed rather than worried, like she was a toy he’d dropped. “Where did she go?”

A hush crept through the room.

Then someone screamed.

It wasn’t the delicate scream of a scandal. It was raw, instinctive.

Lyra turned.

Above the central hall’s open balcony—where servants sometimes stood to watch parties they weren’t invited to—a shadow tipped over the railing.

For a heartbeat, it hung there in the air, dress and apron fluttering.

Then Mara’s body fell.

It hit the marble with a sound that stopped the room’s lungs.

Nobles shrieked. Someone fainted. Chairs scraped back in a rush. A woman sobbed into her fan. A man swore. Edric stood frozen, face draining of color in ugly, childlike shock.

Caelum stared with wide interest rather than horror, as if watching a sudden plot twist. “Oh,” he said. “That’s… dramatic.”

Lyra didn’t flinch.

His uncle moved immediately—fast, decisive. She grabbed Lyra’s shoulder and pulled him behind her, placing her body between him and the sight like a shield.

“Don’t look,” she said, voice sharp but not panicked.

Lyra’s gaze stayed steady anyway. Not on Mara’s broken body—on the room. On the expressions. On the way fear rearranged people’s faces into honesty.

Edric’s mouth opened and closed like he couldn’t find a word large enough for what had just happened. “She— She was— I didn’t—”

His uncle turned on him, eyes bright as cut glass. “Get the guards,” she ordered. “Now. And if any of you speak my nephew’s name in the same breath as this, I’ll make your social life a cautionary tale.”

Someone ran.

Caelum leaned toward Lyra, voice still airy, still almost joking. “Human parties are intense. You invite two guests and somebody dies.”

Lyra said softly, “Stop making jokes.”

Caelum blinked, surprised—then smiled again anyway, stubbornly joyful. “I can’t. It’s how I cope.”

Lyra looked at Mara one last time, only long enough to decide something.

This hadn’t been part of the plan. Not Mara’s. Not Edric’s. Not even his.

A servant’s grudge didn’t usually end like this.

His uncle tightened her grip on his shoulder—not squeezing, not pitying. Anchoring. Declaring, with her body, he is mine to protect.

Lyra let her.

As the guards pushed through the crowd and the salon dissolved into chaos, Lyra remained still, calm as a closed book.

In his head, he filed Mara’s fall into the same place he filed everything else.

Not grief.

Not guilt.

A consequence.

And a question.

Because somewhere between the invitation and the scream, a small fry had turned into a corpse—and Lyra, who had only meant to test his hands on a weak mind, felt the faintest click of something larger moving in the dark.