The halls of House Vellorin hadn't changed.
Not the scent — beeswax polish and old parchment, clinging to the walls like rot disguised as reverence. Not the heavy tapestries embroidered with lions, swords, and false honor. Not the hush of servants stepping aside, their heads bowed just enough to seem dutiful… but not enough to hide their curiosity.
And certainly not the man who sat at the head of the table like he hadn't once signed the decree to burn his own daughter.
Duke Vellorin. Her father.
Lyra stood in the doorway, her spine iron-straight, her new crown casting fractured light across the marble floor. She wore black. Always black. Not mourning — no. A declaration. A warning. A war banner stitched into silk.
He looked up from his wine like she'd interrupted a particularly dull evening.
"Well," he said at last, voice as dry and flavorless as the food on his plate. "The runaway returns."
Not daughter. Not princess consort. Not even Lyra. Just a statement, tossed like crumbs to a starving dog.
She smiled. Slow. Icy.
"I didn't realize I was expected," she said, stepping into the room. Each bootfall echoed like a countdown. "Then again, you always did prefer Evelyne's dramatics."
A flicker passed through his eyes. Guilt? No. Recognition. Like he was seeing her — truly seeing her — for the first time in years.
The last time they'd spoken, his voice had thundered through the dungeon while she begged on her knees, wrists raw, smoke in her throat. Traitor. That's what he called her. Disgrace.
Now she was wrapped in royal silk and carrying a blade hidden in her skirts.
The air between them crackled.
"You wear your new husband's colors," he said. "And his crown."
"I wear my own crown," Lyra said simply, and let the lie sit there. Heavy. Tempting.
The servants scattered at a single glance from her. Good. She wanted him alone. No masks. No witnesses. Just blood and silence.
"You didn't come for pleasantries," the Duke said, tipping back his glass. "So say what you came to say."
"Fine." Lyra rested her gloved hands on the back of the nearest chair. "I want the Vellorin shipping fleets. Half of them. Reflagged under my name."
He scoffed. "You've lost your mind."
"No," she said, leaning in just enough to let him see the storm in her eyes. "I lost everything. Then I crawled back from the pit you threw me into. And now I'm offering you a bargain."
His fingers tightened around the goblet. "This is blackmail."
"This is grace." Her voice was soft. Deadly. "Because if I wanted to destroy you, I wouldn't have walked through your front door. I'd have burned your banners and cut out the tongues of every noble whispering your shame."
He stood. Rage burned behind his eyes, but it was the rage of a man losing ground. "How dare you—"
"How dare you?" she snapped. "I begged for your help. I screamed for you when they dragged me to the pyre. And you turned away. Not because you believed their lies, but because it was easier."
Silence stretched. Thick. Choking.
"I thought you were weak," he said, voice low.
"I was," she replied. "But weakness dies in fire."
For a long moment, he just stared. Then—slowly—he sat back down. Ran a hand down his face like he was suddenly very, very tired.
"What do you want with the fleets?"
"A new trade route through the Wastes," she said. "My husband—Prince Thorne—is expanding his territory. There are resources I want. He has armies. I have coin. We both need ships."
"You're building a kingdom." He said it like an accusation.
She tilted her head. "And what have you built, father? A family of traitors? A court of cowards? You gave Evelyne everything, and all she's built is a gilded lie."
He didn't answer.
She reached into her coat. Laid a scroll on the table. The wax seal shimmered — her own sigil, forged just yesterday: a phoenix wrapped in iron thorns.
"Sign the contract. Fifty percent control. I'll double your returns in six months."
He stared at the parchment. Then at her.
"You always were clever," he murmured.
"No," Lyra said. "I was obedient. There's a difference."
And then she turned to go.
She'd almost reached the doors when his voice stopped her.
"I never hated you."
She didn't look back.
"But you didn't love me either," she said. "Not enough to stop the fire."
She left him with his silence. Let it fester. Let it rot him from the inside.
Outside, the air was thick with summer heat, but it couldn't touch her now. Thorne's carriage waited at the gates, black and sharp-edged, the royal crest painted in crimson. A few nobles lingered near the steps, trying to pretend they weren't watching her with hungry eyes.
Let them look.
She climbed in without a word, and Thorne was already inside, legs sprawled, coat draped casually over one arm. He looked like a predator in velvet.
"Well?" he asked.
She handed him the signed scroll. His brow lifted.
"That was fast."
"He knows I'm not bluffing."
Thorne hummed. "You're terrifying when you're calm."
Lyra didn't answer. Her fingers found the edge of her glove, twisting the seam. She hated how her hands still shook after seeing her father. Hated that some ghosts could still crawl under her skin.
Thorne saw it. Of course he did.
He reached out, took her wrist, and guided her hand to his chest — flat over his heartbeat.
"Take it," he said quietly.
She frowned. "What?"
"If it steadies you. Take it."
Lyra blinked. The pulse under her fingers was slow. Strong. Real.
"I don't need—"
"You don't have to need me," he said. "Just don't push me away when you want to fall."
Her breath hitched. She looked away. But she didn't pull her hand back.
The carriage rolled forward.
And somewhere behind her, House Vellorin began to tremble.