They left the throne room under heavy silence—eyes following, whispers blooming like poison behind their backs. Selene stayed close to Lyra's side, Rory to her other, Elise and Shawn just behind—an escort, a shield, a witness.
Selene own hands were shaking too hard to offer comfort.
Only once they passed the outer corridor did Gessa step nearer to Lyra, moving her away from the group and lowering her voice.
"Breathe, Lyra."
She said it quietly, but her eyes were sharp, reading every rigid line in Lyra's frame—the braced shoulders, the clenched jaw, the pulse hammering in her throat as if she still stood in a battlefield.
"They want to turn her into a specimen," Lyra spat, venom low but blistering. "Studied. Controlled. Dissected. She could die, Gessa."
Her fingers twitched toward her sword again—not to draw, just to reassure herself she still could.
"Lyra." Gessa's hand settled on her arm—not restraining, just steady. "You need to calm down. You're their strength. Look."
She gestured subtly toward Selene and Rory.
Selene stood silent but alert, jaw tight, chest trembling with shallow breaths—eyes searching Lyra's face with concern, faith, and something deeper flickering there.
Lyra exhaled through her teeth—tension coiling, uncoiling, then coiling again.
"We have Princess Rayah on our side. If it's her, we can have control and set limits."
"Yes, but it still feels wrong." She paused. "Have you heard what the others said? I fear that if they keep pushing her—pushing us—I'll do something reckless."
Gessa's mouth curved into a wry smile—a blade wrapped in affection.
"I don't doubt that for a second. Even a General can fall apart over what she cares for most."
She paused, sincerity softening her tone.
"And whatever your decision may be, I'll be on your side." Then, more quietly:
"I hate that we have to head back to Berthold. But if you need help—"
Lyra nodded once. Enough was said. Gessa understood.
And at the far end of the hall—Kylie watched, lips curved in a knowing, poisonous smirk.
A secret thought curled behind her eyes—Let her break herself. Let her choose wrong. They'll be each other ruin.
The journey back to Lyra's ancestral estate was short, but Selene felt each step tighten like a snare. The great stone halls should have been a monument to victory—walls lined in banners, spears from conquered campaigns, portraits of generals carved in gilded frames.
But the air was suffocating.
Selene felt like a stain on marble.
A servant girl kept her eyes down as she opened the hall, hands trembling so hard the lantern rattled against metal. The rumors had reached even here.
At the head of the long table waited Lilith—the steel matriarch. Regal without crown, sharp-eyed, posture flawless even in age. Her voice could cut stone.
"So."
The word thrummed with disdain.
"Look what you've done—bringing such girl for whom you have shamed your King. Whose blood runs with strange power. Whispers already claim she brings danger to Oakhart."
Her gaze fell on Selene like a verdict.
"Tell me, child. Do you truly intend to drag my daughter into ruin? Or do you simply not know your place?"
Selene fingers curled against her skirt to hide the trembling.
"Mother."
Lyra's voice was low—controlled fury vibrating beneath each syllable.
Lilith didn't stop.
""I raised you to be great, Lyra," her voice cracked, laced with a hurt disguised as reproach. "This is far worse than anything we've faced before. This will severely tarnish your father's reputation, who has dedicated so much to building it. I taught you honor, duty, command—and yet..."
She gestured at Selene as if pointing to a stain.
"You bring outsiders into our house and let them dictate your actions?"
Her composure wavered. For a heartbeat, she simply looked like a mother afraid.
Rory's fists clenched.
Selene lowered her eyes, heat burning behind them—not anger. Humiliation. Helplessness. Fear.
Enough.
Lyra moved before thought—an arm sliding around Selene's shoulders, drawing her close. The gesture was effortless and absolute. Her stare locked onto Lilith's, fire hardening her voice.
"Do not speak of them that way."
Lilith froze—not cowed, but shaken.
"I raised you better than this…"
Lyra stepped forward—not attacking, not pleading. Choosing.
"You think this house is a fortress," she said, voice iron against old stone.
"All I hear are chains. Chains of expectation. Chains of pride. Chains that would choke the life out of me if I let them."
She took Selene's hand—interlacing fingers, steady, in full view. Rory felt her other hand settle on his shoulder—silent reassurance.
"I will not let you bind me anymore."
Lilith's voice cracked—
"Lyra, what are you saying? This is your home."
Lyra's gaze softened as she looked down at the two beside her.
"This isn't home."
She turned and walked away—bootsteps striking marble, a declaration. Lilith did not call after her.
And behind them— the servant pressed both hands to her mouth, unable to believe what she'd witnessed.
The silence was a door closing.
They didn't return that night.
Instead, Lyra led them through quieter streets to another property—a manor less ornate, granted for her victories years ago. No ancestral portraits. No judging eyes. Just walls, privacy, and breath.
Rory fell asleep almost instantly in a side room—exhaustion claiming him. Shawn, finally sitting, dabbed his wound with a cloth, eyes glazing with numb relief.
Selene sat before the fire, staring into the flames, thoughts swirling: fear, gratitude, disbelief. And beneath it all—something dangerous and warm. Her shoulders still trembled with aftershocks.
Lyra stood at the window for a long time—her armor of command dented by the evening's blows. When she finally turned toward Selene, she seemed to shed the weight piece by piece.
She approached slowly. Kneeling.
Her fingers brushed a loose strand of Selene's hair back behind her ear.
"You're safe here," she murmured. "I'm sorry."
She continued—voice low, steady.
"My mom has no right to say those words to you. Not nobles. Not anyone. I'll see to it."
"Lyra." Selene's voice wavered. "You shouldn't have to fight everyone for me."
Lyra leaned in, forehead nearly touching hers.
"I would fight the whole world if I had to."
Something fragile shattered. Selene's breath hitched—half sob, half laugh—relief spilling through trembling shoulders.
"I promise to keep you safe. I will."
Lyra's thumb brushed her cheek. Her other hand rested lightly at Selene's jaw—asking, not forcing. Selene met her halfway.
The kiss was slow—steady—not hunger, not desperation. A promise. A choice. A vow.
When they parted, Selene leaned into her shoulder, eyes wet, heart steady for the first time all day.
Lyra wrapped an arm around her, protective and sure.
Selene wasn't safe because of walls or titles.
She was safe because Lyra chose her.