LYRA
The morning light poured through glass so clean it felt like a lie.
I blinked up at the ceiling, watching how the sun touched everything except me. That was fine. I didn't need warmth. I needed control.
My maid yanked the brush through my curls again, and I didn't flinch. Pain was nothing new. Annoyance, yes. But pain? That I could dance with.
"They want you in lavender today," she muttered, barely meeting my eyes in the mirror.
Of course they do. Lavender softens a girl. Makes her easier to stomach.
"I'll wear black," I said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet.
The maid paused, then continued brushing. Smart. No one in this house argues with me unless they want to end the day worse than they started it.
---
College was worse in its own way.
Everyone wanted to be close. Closer. Touch, flirt, pry. Professors praised my work. Boys tried to impress me with charm. Girls whispered when they thought I wasn't listening—how I was cold, untouchable, perfect in a way that begged to be broken.
I let them talk.
Let them believe I was just another rich girl with too many rules and not enough soul.
No one here knew what I was. What I carried. The curse wrapped around my blood like thorns in silk. Love me, and you'll die. That's not poetry. That's prophecy.
So I kept my smile sharp, my answers vague, and my heart locked up in the deepest room of myself.
---
"Lyra, hey!"
I turned at the sound of footsteps behind me. I knew that voice.
Eli.
Tall, athletic, all smirks and smooth lines. The kind of boy who didn't hear no unless it was followed by a laugh.
He jogged up beside me, holding two coffees and way too much hope.
"Brought you one," he said, offering the cup like a peace treaty.
I didn't take it.
"You keep bringing me things I don't ask for."
He grinned, unbothered. "You keep looking like you need them."
Charming. Persistent. And, unfortunately for him, alive.
I gave him a half-smile. "I don't drink caffeine. Makes my heart race."
His eyes glinted. "That's the point."
Poor boy.
I stepped past him, letting my silence speak louder than any clever retort.
---
Back home, the silence was thicker.
My parents didn't greet me when I walked in. They rarely did. My father was too busy pretending I didn't exist unless it benefited him. My mother existed in her own bubble—perfume, pearls, and empty pride.
Dinner was quiet. Formal. Empty.
Sometimes I wondered if they regretted having me. Then I remembered—no one in the Consul has children for love. Only legacy.
I was born to fulfill a role. Not a life.
---
That night, I sat at my window, watching shadows crawl across the garden walls. A breeze drifted in, cool and sharp. Somewhere below, the guards made their rounds. I knew their patterns better than they did.
I pressed a hand to the glass.
They think I'm a cage bird.
But I've been sharpening my wings.