The sun hung low over the horizon as the golden gates of the royal palace came into view. Towering spires pierced the clouds, their white stone walls glowing in the waning light. Lyra sat stiffly in the carriage, her hands clutching the edge of the seat as if it might anchor her to a world she once understood.
She had never seen anything like it.
The palace wasn't just large—it was enormous, almost otherworldly. A grand courtyard paved with shimmering marble stretched before her, flanked by rows of armored guards standing as still as statues. Flags bearing the royal crest—an eagle with outstretched wings—fluttered in the breeze, and trumpets sounded as her carriage pulled to a halt.
The coachman opened the door and offered a bow.
"Miss Lyra. We have arrived."
Lyra stepped down hesitantly. The cobblestones felt unnaturally smooth beneath her feet, and every eye seemed to pierce through her as she stood in simple linen robes, in sharp contrast to the rich silks and velvets of those around her.
A woman in elegant dark blue robes approached. Her steps were measured, her face unreadable.
"I am Lady Corvina, Mistress of Court Protocol," she said, her tone crisp and cold. "You are to follow me. Do not stray. Do not speak unless spoken to."
"Yes, my lady," Lyra murmured, lowering her eyes.
She didn't belong here. Every step into the palace felt heavier. The ceiling soared above her, etched with golden vines and murals of battles, kings, and angels. The air smelled of incense and polished stone. It was beautiful—and suffocating.
---
They led her through a maze of corridors, past courtiers who whispered behind jeweled fans. The marble beneath her feet clicked with each step, echoing in the silence.
She was finally brought to a set of massive double doors carved with the royal crest.
Lady Corvina turned. "This is your chamber. Servants will attend to you shortly. Dinner is served in the east wing at the ninth bell. You are expected to dress appropriately."
Lyra opened her mouth, but the woman was already gone.
The doors creaked open.
Inside, the chamber was larger than her entire cottage back in Eldoria. Velvet curtains draped the windows, and a bed carved from ivory wood stood in the center, layered with silks. A table held a tray of fruits she couldn't name. The walls shimmered with goldleaf patterns.
She didn't sit. She didn't touch anything.
Instead, she walked to the window and looked out.
Below, she saw the training yard where knights sparred in armor. Beyond that, a garden too perfectly arranged, each flower a burst of color in precise symmetry.
Too perfect. Too clean. Too quiet.
Her heart ached for the scent of flour on her mother's apron, for Mira's laughter in the wheat fields, for Theo's stubborn grin. She was in the most beautiful place in the kingdom—yet she had never felt more alone.
---
The door creaked open again.
A young girl, no older than Lyra, stepped in and curtsied.
"Good evening, my lady. I'm Elinor. I've been assigned as your handmaid."
"My lady?" Lyra repeated, startled. "No, I'm not—"
"You are now," Elinor interrupted gently, eyes soft. "Word spreads fast in the palace. They say you're the Star Child. That you have magic in your blood."
Lyra's throat tightened. "I don't want to be any of those things."
Elinor hesitated. "No one here truly wants to be what they are, my lady. They just learn how to survive it."
---
That night, Lyra sat alone at the long banquet table in the east wing. Rows of nobles chattered and drank wine from crystal goblets, but none sat near her. Their glances flicked to her, then away again—judging, measuring.
The King, Alaric, sat on the raised dais at the end of the hall, flanked by his council. His gaze met hers only once, and she could not read his expression.
She pushed food around her plate.
A nobleman leaned toward another and whispered, "Did you see how she walked? Like a farm girl. Untrained. Undeserving."
"She's just a pawn," another sneered. "A divine mask for political theater."
Lyra heard every word.
---
Later that night, she wandered the palace halls. She should not have—Lady Corvina had warned her not to roam—but the walls of her chamber were closing in.
She stumbled upon a long gallery lined with stained glass windows. One caught her eye: a depiction of the gods casting a figure from the heavens. The fallen deity, cloaked in stars, wept as she descended in flames.
Lyra froze.
The image was her.
Not literally—but the shape, the sorrow, the fall… she felt it in her bones.
Behind her, a voice spoke.
"You shouldn't be here."
Lyra spun around to see an older man in council robes—tall, silver-haired, sharp-eyed.
"I'm sorry, I was just—"
"Curious? Or searching?" he said.
"I don't know," she whispered.
He stepped closer. "There are those who believe you were sent by the gods. Others think you are a danger to the realm. The question is, child... what do you believe?"
Lyra had no answer.
The man studied her. "You will need to decide that soon. The court is not a place for indecision. Every silence is a statement. Every breath a battle."
He turned and left without another word.
---
That night, in the too-soft bed of her too-grand room, Lyra stared at the ceiling. Her palms itched with restless energy. Her dreams were filled with fire and wings, with a throne of stars and a voice that whispered:
> "Remember who you were, Lyrielle."
But when she woke, she could not remember.
Only the emptiness remained.