Night did not fall gently.
It came sharp and restless, carrying a wind that rattled the iron banners along the walls. Lyra stood at the window of her room, fingers curled around the stone sill, watching torches flare to life one by one across the compound. The patrol pattern had changed. She could feel it—not instinct, not magic, but the way fear rearranged routines.
She hadn't stopped thinking about the woman at the gate.
You're standing on a fault line.
The words burrowed deep.
A knock came at her door. Not loud. Controlled.
She turned. "Come in."
He entered without ceremony, closing the door behind him. The room felt smaller immediately, like the air had shifted to accommodate him. His presence always did that—quiet, grounding, heavy with things unsaid.
"You should have told me she spoke to you," he said.
Lyra stiffened. "I didn't have time."
"You had time afterward."
"I needed to think," she shot back, then softened. "I didn't know what mattered yet."
He studied her, gaze sharp but not unkind. "Everything she said matters."
Lyra hugged her arms around herself. "She didn't threaten me."
"That's worse."
She frowned. "How?"
"Threats mean intent," he replied. "Observation means planning."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Lyra asked quietly, "Do you think they want to take me?"
"Yes."
The honesty made her breath hitch.
"And if they can't?" she pressed.
His jaw flexed. "Then they'll try to force you to choose."
"Choose what?"
He hesitated—just long enough for her to notice.
Lyra stepped closer. "Tell me."
"Between who you belong to," he said, voice low, "and who you want to protect."
Her heart thudded. "You mean you."
"I mean everyone."
She looked away. "I never asked for this."
"I know."
"I never asked to be important."
"I know," he repeated, softer.
She swallowed. "And yet… here I am."
He nodded once. "Here you are."
Another silence—this one heavier, charged.
Lyra shifted uneasily. "They talk about mating like it's a political move."
His eyes flicked to hers. "Because for them, it is."
"And for you?" she asked before she could stop herself.
The question hung between them, fragile and dangerous.
"For me," he said slowly, "it's not a topic I take lightly."
Her cheeks warmed. "I don't really… understand it. Not fully."
Something softened in his expression—something protective, careful.
"You're not supposed to," he said. "Not all at once."
She hesitated, then asked, voice small but honest, "Is it always… intense?"
A breath. Controlled. Measured.
"It can be," he answered. "But intensity isn't the same as harm."
She nodded, absorbing that like it mattered. Like it was something she needed to hear.
"I don't want to be rushed," she added quickly. "Or pushed. Or claimed like—like a territory."
"You won't be," he said immediately. No hesitation. No ambiguity.
Her eyes lifted to his. "You promise?"
He stepped closer—not touching, but close enough that she felt the warmth of him.
"I swear it."
The words settled into her bones.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then—without warning—the air shifted.
Lyra gasped, hand flying to her chest.
"What—?" she whispered.
The torches outside flared brighter. The shadows in the room bent strangely, like they were listening.
He felt it too. His posture snapped alert.
"Lyra," he said sharply, "what are you feeling?"
"I don't know," she breathed. "It's like something is… stretching. Inside me."
The room hummed. Not sound—pressure.
His instincts roared, but he forced calm into his voice. "Look at me. Stay with me."
She did. Her eyes glowed faintly—just for a second.
Then it vanished.
The air stilled.
Lyra sagged slightly, confused. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he said firmly, catching her before she could fall. He stopped himself just short of pulling her fully in, hands hovering at her arms instead of gripping.
"No," he repeated. "You did something right."
She stared at him, breath uneven. "That scared me."
"It should," he admitted. "But it also means you're waking up."
Her voice trembled. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"You won't," he said. "Not if you're guided."
"And if I lose control?"
His gaze darkened—not with fear, but resolve. "Then I'll be here."
That was when it hit her—not like lightning, but gravity.
She trusted him.
That realization was more frightening than any enemy beyond the walls.
Outside, unseen by either of them, a presence lingered just beyond the territory line—watching the flare of power fade.
And smiling.