The morning air was heavy, wet with the scent of dew and secrets.
Lyra stood barefoot in the garden she once bled in. Not a dream. Not a memory. Real.
The soft press of earth beneath her toes. The sting of the breeze slipping through the hedgerows. The faint perfume of Evelyne's roses — overbred and soulless, just like her.
Lyra inhaled sharply. Every breath burned with remembrance. Every leaf, every brick, every careless laugh echoing from the east wing — they were exactly as she remembered them.
Three months. She had three months.
And the past was still in place, playing the same cruel song.
Caelum came to her chamber with violets in his hand and silk on his tongue.
"You weren't at breakfast," he said, placing the flowers beside her untouched tea. His voice was honey — thick, slow, and sweet enough to rot teeth.
Lyra tilted her head. Once, that voice made her shiver. Now it curdled something in her gut.
"Woke with a headache," she murmured, wrapping her robe tighter. A lie. A test.
His eyes didn't flicker. No concern. No suspicion. Just that same patient, practiced smile.
So, still a liar. Still the loyal dog beneath Evelyne's heel.
He kissed her cheek, lingered just a second too long. She didn't flinch — but gods, she wanted to.
"Get some rest," he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear like a man who'd earned the right.
She watched him go.
It took everything in her not to spit.
She spent the day retracing steps. Not as Lyra the wife. Not as Lyra the Vellorin.
But as Lyra the ghost.
The kitchens still reeked of iron and smoke. The same scullery maid still dropped spoons when startled. The same stableboy still watched her with soft, sun-warmed eyes.
She smiled at him. Once. In her first life, he died for it.
Not this time.
This time, she wouldn't let her kindness kill anyone.
By nightfall, she stood at the edge of the old stone bridge — the one Evelyne pushed her from when they were children.
She remembered the sound her head made when it hit the bank. Not a splash. A crack.
She remembered Evelyne's laughter — high, sweet, and monstrous.
That was the moment Lyra learned: pretty girls with smiles sharper than swords always win.
Unless someone teaches them how to bleed.
She pressed her palm to the railing. Cold stone. Unyielding. Solid.
She was real. This second chance was real.
She would not waste it.
By candlelight, Lyra drafted the letter.
To Prince Thorne of the Southern Wastes,
I require a warlord. You require a crown. Let us not pretend at romance.
You will have my hand for one year. In return, I will have your name, your soldiers, and your blade. My enemies are many. Yours are more. Together, we will be worse.
I offer no love, no lies, and no apology.
Only blood, fire, and a throne that deserves us both.
She sealed the letter with the Vellorin crest — a phoenix.
How fitting. They always thought it was a symbol of hope.
But Lyra knew better now.
Phoenixes don't rise to forgive.
They rise to burn.
She held the letter over the candle. Let the wax drip. Let the flame kiss her fingertips.
She didn't flinch.
Not anymore.