The night settled uneasily over the compound, the kind of silence that didn't soothe but watched.
Lyra stood at the tall window of her room, fingers curled into the heavy curtains as moonlight spilled across the marble floor. The estate slept, but her mind didn't. It never did anymore. Not since the truths had begun unraveling—slow at first, then all at once, like thread pulled too hard.
She had learned that silence could be louder than screams.
Behind her, the door opened softly.
She didn't turn.
"You should be resting."
His voice—low, controlled—carried weight. Not authority alone, but restraint. The kind forged by years of violence carefully leashed.
"I tried," Lyra said quietly. "Sleep doesn't listen to me anymore."
He closed the door but didn't lock it. A small thing. A deliberate thing. She noticed.
When he moved closer, she felt it before she heard it—the shift in the air, the tension tightening like a held breath. He stopped a few steps behind her, giving her space. Always space. Too much, sometimes.
"You were shaking at dinner," he said. Not an accusation. An observation.
Lyra swallowed. "I wasn't cold."
"I know."
She finally turned then. The light caught his face, carving sharp lines where softness rarely lived. His eyes—dark, searching—rested on her with something dangerously close to concern.
"Everyone keeps pretending nothing is changing," she said. "But it is. I feel it."
He didn't deny it.
"That's because things are changing," he replied. "And you're standing at the center of it."
That scared her more than if he'd lied.
Lyra crossed her arms, grounding herself. "You all make decisions around me. About me. Never with me."
A pause.
Then, quieter: "We thought we were protecting you."
She let out a shaky laugh. "From what?"
His jaw tightened.
"From the world," he said. "From us."
That answer sat between them, heavy and unfinished.
Lyra took a step closer before she could stop herself. "I don't want to be sheltered anymore. I want to understand. Why people look at me like I'm… something waiting to happen."
His gaze dropped to her, sharp now. Alert.
"You're not a weapon," he said immediately.
"That's not what I asked."
Silence stretched.
Finally, he exhaled. "There are factions watching this family. Watching you. Not because of what you are—but because of what you represent."
"And what is that?" she whispered.
"A shift."
The word echoed through her chest.
"I didn't ask for this," she said.
"No," he agreed. "But power rarely waits for permission."
Her hands trembled, and this time she didn't hide it. He noticed—of course he did—but still didn't touch her. The restraint was almost painful to witness.
"I need to know I can trust you," Lyra said. "Not as a protector. As a person."
He hesitated, and in that hesitation, she saw it—the fracture forming beneath his control.
"You already do," he said at last. "You just don't know how much."
A knock came at the door, sharp and urgent.
Both of them stilled.
He turned, opening it just enough to hear the message. Whatever was said drained the warmth from his face entirely.
"They've crossed the eastern border," he said, closing the door again. "Tonight."
Lyra's heart thudded. "So this is it?"
"No," he replied, meeting her gaze. "This is the warning."
She straightened, fear still there—but something else now, too. Resolve. Curiosity sharpened into steel.
"Then stop keeping me in the dark," she said. "If I'm part of this… I want to stand where I can see."
He studied her for a long moment.
Then, finally, he nodded.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Everything changes."
And for the first time, Lyra didn't flinch at the promise.