The child was no more than seven winters old.
She had been found curled beneath the hollow roots of a fallen ash tree at the northern border—silent, half-frozen, caked in soot. Her clothes were threadbare. Her skin pale as bone. Her eyes… not gold, not brown, not even silver.
But red.
A muted, dusk-touched red, like the last gleam of fire before a hearth dies.
The border patrol had brought her in without fanfare, uncertain whether she was a curse or a warning. She had not spoken. She had not shifted. But she had stared.
And when they tried to feed her, she had turned away.
When they tried to question her, she had simply hummed—a strange, lilting melody no one could place.
Until Lyra arrived.
She came to the holding chambers without armor or guards. No crown, no fire trailing behind her.
Only purpose.
Kael waited outside the threshold. He didn't offer to come in. Not this time.
This wasn't about him.
This was hers.
