Lyra woke with the uneasy feeling that something inside her had shifted during the night.
Not broken. Not wrong.
Just… awake.
She lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling as pale morning light crept across the stone walls. Her body felt different—heavy in some places, light in others, like she was learning new gravity. When she lifted her hand, she half-expected it to glow again.
It didn't.
Relief and disappointment tangled in her chest.
A soft knock sounded.
She tensed instinctively before remembering where she was.
"It's me," came his voice from the other side. Calm. Steady.
She sat up. "You can come in."
He entered slowly, as if mindful not to startle her. His eyes scanned her face first—not the room, not the exits. Her.
"You didn't scream," he said.
She frowned. "Was I supposed to?"
"No," he replied. "Just checking."
That made her smile faintly. "I slept. Properly. I think that's a first."
He nodded once, approval quiet but clear. "Good."
He didn't leave.
Lyra noticed that immediately.
Instead, he leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded loosely, posture relaxed in a way that felt intentional—as if he didn't want to loom.
"Are people still watching me?" she asked.
"Yes."
She sighed. "Figures."
"But," he added, "they're listening now too."
That caught her attention. "Listening for what?"
"For you to decide who you are."
Her brow creased. "I thought that was already decided. Broken girl. Burden. Problem."
His jaw tightened. "That's what they called you."
"And what do you call me?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer immediately.
When he did, it was careful. "Someone who survived."
Her throat tightened. "That feels… bigger than I am."
"Growth usually does."
She swung her legs off the bed, grounding herself. "You said yesterday that I'm waking up."
"Yes."
"And that scares you," she said, watching him closely.
He met her gaze. "It scares everyone else."
"That's not an answer."
A pause. Then honesty. "It scares me because power draws attention. And attention invites loss."
She absorbed that quietly.
"Do you regret finding me?" she asked suddenly.
The question hit like a blade.
"No," he said instantly. Too fast to be rehearsed. "Never."
She nodded, eyes dropping. "Good."
He stepped closer—still no touching—but the space between them shrank.
"There's something else," he said.
Lyra's heart fluttered. "That doesn't sound comforting."
"It's not meant to be." His tone softened. "We're going to start controlled exposure today."
Her eyes widened. "Exposure to what?"
"To yourself."
She swallowed. "I don't know how."
"That's why I'll be there."
She hesitated. "What if I disappoint you?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do," he said. "Because you care whether you do."
That made her chest ache in a way she didn't recognize.
As they walked through the halls together, Lyra noticed how people looked at her now—not just curiosity, but something closer to reverence mixed with uncertainty. She stayed close to him without realizing it.
He noticed.
Didn't comment.
In the open training courtyard, the air felt different. Tighter. Expectant.
"You don't have to do anything impressive," he told her quietly. "Just feel."
Lyra closed her eyes.
At first, there was nothing.
Then warmth—soft, like sunlight filtered through leaves. It pooled in her chest, spreading gently, not burning but alive. Her breath caught.
"I feel… safe," she whispered.
His voice was right beside her now. "That's the nymphic current. It responds to emotional truth."
She opened her eyes. "It feels like it knows me."
"It does."
A breeze stirred the banners overhead. The ground beneath her feet hummed faintly.
Someone gasped nearby.
Lyra panicked instantly. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—"
"Lyra," he said firmly. "Look at me."
She did.
The power steadied.
The world exhaled.
"You didn't lose control," he said. "You responded."
Her hands trembled. "I thought power was supposed to feel… dangerous."
"It can," he said. "But yours is rooted in connection. That's why they fear it."
She laughed nervously. "I can barely look people in the eye."
"And yet," he said quietly, "you make them feel seen."
That realization hit her harder than any accusation.
Later, as the courtyard emptied, she lingered.
"Kael?" she said softly.
"Yes."
"About mating," she added quickly, cheeks flushing. "I—I don't think I'm ready to even understand it. But I don't want it to be something cold. Or forced. Or political."
His gaze softened, something deep and protective settling there.
"It won't be," he said. "Not with me."
Her heart skipped. "Even if it causes problems?"
A pause.
"Especially then."
She didn't fully understand what that meant.
But she believed him.
And somewhere beyond the borders, the watchers adjusted their plans—because belief like that was dangerous.