The Protectors searched the world.
Years passed in silence and wind-blown hopes.
They scoured ruins, ancient texts, orphanages, bloodlines.
But the girl in the prophecy did not appear.
And as time slipped on, even belief began to fade.
In an effort to preserve what little strength remained, a union was arranged between two noble houses—remnants of the ancient bloodlines once sworn to the light.
The House of Caelthorn—keepers of celestial lore.
And the House of Velmira—guardians of sacred flame.
From this union came Lord Auren Caelthorn, the younger heir, now head of the newly joined families. Stoic, wise beyond his years, and burdened by war and expectation, Auren accepted leadership with quiet resolve.
Time passed.
Then, at last, joy bloomed.
His wife, Lady Elira, beloved and kind-hearted, became pregnant—a rare moment of light in a world growing dim. The houses celebrated. Hope returned.
But destiny is cruel.
And its curses run deep.
Elira died giving birth to their child.
It was a girl.
Auren stood frozen in the cold halls of the birthing wing. The cries of the newborn pierced the air like a blade. He didn't ask to see her. He didn't ask her name. His heart had shattered, and from the pieces grew a silence colder than steel.
"She took Elira," he said. "Take her away. I never want to see her."
No naming ceremony. No blessing.
The infant was branded—the mother-killer—and sent to the forgotten annex at the edge of the manor grounds.
She was a ghost to the household.
No one looked at her. No one spoke her name.
Except two.
Mira, her mother's old handmaid, stayed by her side. Quiet, tender, weathered by grief but fiercely loyal.
And Gorran, the castle's head chef—gruff in voice but gentle in soul—snuck warm food and sweets to the child, telling stories while peeling apples with his old silver knife.
And so, the years passed.
The girl grew. Small, quiet, curious.
Now she was three.
They called her "the child," or "the annex girl." But Mira whispered to her at night, "Your name is Lyra. Your mother chose it for you before she passed. It means light in the old tongue."
Lyra.
She liked the sound. She would repeat it to herself in the garden, tugging dandelions and pretending the flowers could hear her.
On the day everything changed, Lyra was playing in the eastern garden. The dirt stained her feet. Her little hands were smudged with soil, and a wilted daisy was clenched between her fingers.
Then, she saw him.
A tall man in deep navy robes, silver trim on the hem—broad-shouldered, distant-eyed.
She had never seen him before.
But Mira had shown her a sketch.
Her small heart began to race.
"Father!"
Her voice rang out.
Auren froze.
"Father!" she called again, running.
Her bare feet pounded across stone and grass. She tripped, stumbled, then kept running, holding out the tiny flower in her fist.
When she reached him, she grinned—muddy, radiant—and pressed the crushed flower into his palm.
He looked down.
Her eyes… they were Elira's.
So was her smile.
For a heartbeat, he forgot the world.
Then guilt clawed its way back in.
He turned, ready to walk away. But then—
"Father…"
Her voice trembled now, uncertain.
Her little fingers clung to his cloak.
She looked so small. So real. So… alive.
He bent down, slowly.
Then, to the shock of all watching, he picked her up.
And she—startled—burst into tears.
"Father… Father…"
She sobbed, not in pain, but in relief. As though she had finally stepped into a dream she thought would never come true.
Her little fingers clung to his cloak.
Auren stood, frozen.
The weight of her touch—small, fragile—was heavier than steel.
He wanted to pull away. He wanted to forget.
But her warmth bled through the cold walls he'd built.
And for the first time… he didn't feel numb.
The garden fell silent.
Officials and attendants nearby stood stunned. The stoic Lord Auren—untouched by emotion since his wife's death—held his daughter close to his chest.
And he… smiled.
Just once.
But it was enough.
A crushed flower in his hand.
A child in his arms.
And for the first time in three years—light returned.