Lyra
The halls of the estate had begun to feel like a mirror—each corner reflecting something that wasn't quite right. A whisper in a room I hadn't entered. A shadow slipping just out of reach. I'd grown used to Tristan's silence, but now there was another kind of watching I couldn't name.
And Rauterson kept appearing.
First in the library, three mornings in a row. Then the garden, his posture too casual, too rehearsed. He always wore a smile, like everything he said was dipped in honey and brushed with harmlessness. But I was raised among politicians and predators. Honey didn't hide the bite.
Today, it was the eastern corridor. I had gone there to be alone—to think. The corridor curved around the relic wing, though the main passage had been sealed off since the marriage. And yet, there he was. Rauterson. Again.
He didn't look surprised to see me. That was what set my nerves on edge.
"Lady Lyra," he greeted with a warm nod. "Strange day, isn't it? The air feels thick."
"Most would call that humidity," I replied flatly, brushing past him.
"Or something else," he said, voice quieter. "Sometimes buildings remember things. Echoes, you know? Especially old places. Especially places with magic."
I turned sharply. "Do you often talk to noblewomen about echoes and haunted walls?"
He laughed. "Only the ones who hear them."
My fingers curled against my side. "Are you following me?"
He tilted his head. "Should I be?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. I walked away before I said something I'd regret—but the chill in my spine didn't leave.
---
Later that night, I heard the sound.
Soft. Measured. Footsteps on stone—too careful to be careless.
I slipped from my chamber barefoot, every step quiet as a breath. The house was asleep. Even the candles seemed to flicker slower.
I followed the sound down the south hall, past the frost-glass windows and ancestral portraits, until I saw it—an open door.
One of the side studies. A room rarely used.
I peeked around the frame, careful not to let the door creak.
There he was. Rauterson. Back to me. His hands were flipping through a heavy book pulled from the oldest shelf—one bound in leather that crackled with a shimmer of old enchantment.
I stepped forward.
"You seem very comfortable stealing from rooms you don't belong in."
He didn't flinch. Didn't slam the book closed. He just turned slowly, that damned smile still on his face.
"Curiosity is hardly a crime," he said. "But I suppose that depends on who's judging."
---
I stepped into the study and shut the door behind me. Quietly. Deliberately.
"Who are you really?" I asked, voice low.
Rauterson's smile didn't falter, but something flickered in his eyes. Not guilt. Not fear. Calculation.
"I'm the man assigned to ensure you survive this arrangement," he said smoothly. "That is… a difficult job, considering the nature of your curse. And your husband."
I didn't like the way he said husband—like it was some unspoken punchline.
"You're not part of Tristan's staff," I said. "You watch me like a spy, not a steward. You ask too many questions. You appear in places no one sends you."
"Observation isn't a crime either."
"It is when you're hiding what you observe for."
That earned me silence. Finally.
Rauterson sighed and set the book down with care, like it might bite him if he didn't. "You're sharper than they give you credit for."
"Who's they?"
He met my gaze. "Let's just say I wasn't placed here by Tristan. And I'm not the only one watching the chessboard."
My stomach turned. "So you are a spy."
"Information broker," he corrected, still maddeningly calm. "I work for someone who believes you might be the only unpredictable factor in a very, very old game."
"Which side?"
"That depends on the day."
I took a slow breath, fighting the impulse to scream for the guards. If I did that, he'd disappear before I got any real answers. "What do you know about my curse?"
He tilted his head, almost sympathetic. "Only that it wasn't a natural affliction. And it wasn't meant for you alone."
The words struck like ice down my spine.
"You'll want to look closer at the old records. Marriage contracts. Family trees. Especially the ones your father burned."
My heart dropped. "You're trying to turn me against my family."
"I don't need to," he said softly. "They've already done that themselves."
---
He moved past me then, too close, his presence like smoke and secrets. I didn't stop him. I just stood there, heart hammering, one truth louder than all the rest:
I was in the center of something I still didn't understand.
---
I wandered through the corridor like a ghost, my thoughts snarled in everything Rauterson had said. The idea that my curse wasn't even meant for me alone kept echoing louder than footsteps on marble.
Marriage contracts. Family trees. Burned records.
My skin felt too tight.
I didn't even realize where I was heading until I stepped out into the west terrace. Moonlight spilled over the cold stone floor, and the night air hit my face like a slap. I needed that. I needed silence. Stillness. Control.
But I wasn't alone.
I felt him before I saw him—Tristan, leaning in the shadows near the stone balustrade, a drink in hand, watching me like I'd wandered into his battlefield.
His voice was unreadable. "You look like someone told you ghosts are real."
I didn't answer. I didn't trust what might slip out.
He straightened and took a step closer, expression unreadable but sharper than usual. "What did Rauterson say to you?"
I turned toward him slowly. "So you did know he found me."
"I always know who walks into the study," he said. "I just don't always interrupt."
"Why not?" I asked bitterly. "Didn't feel like playing the tyrant tonight?"
Tristan's jaw twitched. "You think everything I do is control. Maybe it is. But you're shaking, Lyra."
I hadn't realized until he said it. My hands, trembling. My breath, uneven.
He took another step, then stopped. Close enough to catch my eyes. Close enough to make the world feel too quiet.
"What did he say?" His voice dropped. "What did he give you?"
For a heartbeat, I wanted to tell him. Everything. But the memory of his coldness—the secrets he kept—the way he still hadn't told me his truth—shut my mouth.
Instead, I said, "He told me something I already suspected. That I'm a pawn in a game everyone thinks I'm too stupid to understand."
Tristan didn't flinch. "You're not stupid."
"But you still won't tell me anything," I said. "Not about the Consuls. Not about you. So don't act like you care now."
Silence stretched between us. A tension too tight to hold, and too sharp to ignore.
Then, he said something I didn't expect.
"I'm watching you because I don't know what you'll do. And because I know what they want from you."
His eyes—dark, burning—held mine.
"You're not just a pawn, Lyra. You're a trigger."
He turned and walked away before I could ask what that meant.