Marta closed the heavy door to Lyra's room, the creak echoing down the vast, silent corridor. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of the familiar heartbreak. The question—"Did Father visit? Or my brothers and sister?"—still lingered in the stillness, like a ghost refusing to fade. She had seen that spark of hope in Lyra's eyes again, brief and bright, before it was snuffed out by the crushing inevitability. The emperor—Lyra's father—was too wrapped in the remnants of his waning influence to spare even a glance for his daughter. And the elder siblings, molded in his image, mirrored his cold indifference with disquieting precision.
The estate, once grand, bore no signs of ruin—only neglect. Dust clung to drapes and windows, vines curled where hands no longer pruned, and the quiet stretched too long between footsteps. The structure endured, but its spirit had dimmed, much like the child it housed.
Marta sighed, rubbing her temples with calloused fingers. Though she hadn't served the family in generations past, her time here felt long, nonetheless. She'd come in recent years, meant to care for this branch of nobility fallen from grace, and had grown to care deeply for Lyra. Despite the circumstances, Lyra had once been a quietly cheerful child, lighting up over stories and small gestures. Her smiles had been swift, genuine, and sometimes heartbreaking in their persistence. Even when withdrawn, a spark always lingered behind her gaze—a gentle, aching hope.
But the next morning, beneath a pale, watery sun, something had changed.
It was in that stillness, amid the dim glow of filtered light and silence so thick it pressed against her ears, that Lyra climbed a rickety ladder, reaching for a book high on the shelf. The wood, long rotted with age, gave way beneath her. She fell hard—the thud of her small body against the stone muffled by the thick, dust-coated silence. Her head struck the edge of the shelf on the way down. Blood pooled slowly beneath her temple as she lay there, unmoving.
Marta found her hours later, the book she had tried to reach lying nearby. Panic surged through her as she rushed to Lyra's side, calling her name and shaking her gently, then desperately. For a moment, nothing happened—Lyra remained still, pale, and limp on the cold floor. But just as Marta was about to run for help, Lyra stirred faintly, her lashes fluttering. With great effort, she opened her eyes and offered Marta the barest, almost imperceptible smile—fleeting and fragile, but there. Then her eyes closed again, and Marta, trembling, shouted for help, the unanswered questions weighing heavy in her chest.
That was the beginning of a change she never anticipated.
Marta returned to Lyra's room carrying a tray of porridge and warm, sweetened milk. She opened the door gently, her voice low. "My lady? Are you feeling any better this morning?"
Lyra was already awake, sitting up in bed with her back straight, the worn blanket pulled neatly around her. Her eyes, usually soft with unspoken yearning, were fixed on the window—but this time, they were disturbingly blank. Not dreamy, not wistful. Just empty.
Marta paused, nearly dropping the tray. That flicker of hope, the glint of sadness, the ache that always rested in Lyra's eyes—gone. In its place: stillness. Her features, once youthful and soft, now wore a calm, unsettling composure. Her eyes stared through the window rather than at it.
"My lady?" Marta tried again, her voice edged with unease.
Lyra turned her head slowly. Their eyes met. Marta's breath caught. There was no warmth there, no recognition. Just a quiet detachment, like staring into the gaze of someone who had long since stopped reaching out.
"I am well, Marta," Lyra replied. Her voice was low, steady. No childish pitch, no hesitation. It was measured—eerily so.
Forcing a smile, Marta approached. "Good, good. I've brought breakfast." She set the tray beside the bed, hands clumsy with nerves. "You should eat, to regain your strength, my lady."
Lyra nodded once and reached for the spoon. She ate mechanically, each motion precise. There was no eagerness, no emotion at all—just function.
Marta watched in silence, unease knotting her stomach. This was not her Lyra. Whatever had happened during the fall, it had done more than knock the child unconscious. It had altered something deeper. Her eyes no longer pleaded for attention or kindness. They simply… watched.
And behind those eyes, Elara stirred.
Elara felt Marta's gaze on her but disregarded it. There would always be watchers, always those who needed reassurance or emotion in return. She would give them nothing. Not anymore.
"Is there anything else, Marta?" Lyra asked. Her tone was flat, almost curt.
Marta blinked, startled by the change. "No, My lady. Just… rest."
Lyra inclined her head slightly but said nothing more.
As Marta turned to leave, she hesitated in the doorway. "Will my lady be visiting His Majesty today? You usually do after breakfast."
Lyra paused mid-motion. Her spoon hovered above the bowl.
"No," she said. One word. Calm. Final.
Marta's breath caught. "But… my lady, you always—"
"I don't think I have to. I also want to do something today."
Simple. Uncompromising. Marta stared, caught between disbelief and grief. Lyra had always gone, even when she knew he would not see her. Always held out hope for some shred of recognition. But not today. Today, there was no flicker of longing. Just stillness.
Marta backed out slowly. "Very well," she murmured.
But just as she reached the threshold, Lyra turned her head slightly. The movement was subtle—barely more than a tilt—and when Marta looked back, something shifted in the girl's expression.
A faint smile—barely there, like a secret she wasn't quite ready to share—ghosted across Lyra's lips.
Not warmth, not joy. But something quiet. Intentional. A trace of acknowledgment.
Marta froze. That single flicker of expression struck deeper than any words. It wasn't the smile of a child seeking affection—it was the smile of someone seeing, noticing, choosing.
Marta didn't know what it meant, not yet. But she held onto it, as one would a candle in the dark.
The door closed behind her with a soft thud.
Inside, Lyra continued to eat, eyes returning to the light filtering through the glass. The moons were gone, but their memory lingered. She was Lyra. But she was also Elara. And Elara had been betrayed, belittled, and destroyed. She would not let this life be a repetition of the last.
She would not wait for affection.
She would never beg again.
That day unfolded in quiet determination. Lyra did not rest. Once breakfast was done, she rose, testing her young limbs. The aches from her fall still lingered, but she pushed through them. There was too much to assess. Too much to reclaim.
She explored the neglected wing of the estate with cool calculation. Each room was dusted in the past: forgotten portraits, unused furniture, rugs dulled with time and neglect.
She met the staff—what little remained of them. A cook. A stable hand. Ten maids, all moving with the slow resignation of those tethered to decline. They bowed, their eyes downcast, their greetings mechanical.
"Good morning," Lyra said softly as she passed two maids carrying linens down the corridor.
They paused, dipped their heads in shallow bows, and quickly continued on without another word.
Later, she approached a pair cleaning near the drawing room. "Who maintains the library?"
One of them straightened, eyes flicking briefly to Lyra's before lowering again. "No one's been assigned there, my lady. It's been unused for some time."
The other added without warmth, "If you need something, best inform Marta. We're already stretched thin."
Lyra gave a faint nod. "Very well."
They offered no further comment. The silence that followed felt dismissive, and Lyra read it clearly. Respect, in this place, was not freely given. It had to be earned—or taken.
She found the small, musty library on her own. Dust hung in the stale air, and the scent of old parchment clung to every corner. Her fingers trailed along cracked leather spines. Books had once been her refuge. She selected one on regional flora and flipped through it. Pages turned under steady fingers. She was slower now, but focused. This knowledge was real. Physical. Tangible. And it could be used.
A faint smile touched her lips. This life, for all its strangeness, wasn't nearly as cruel as the last. At least now, she had something—means, people, and a reason to keep moving forward.
Later, she wandered into the overgrown gardens. What had once been cultivated elegance was now a tangle of brambles and weeds. A fountain stood dry and broken at the center. But she walked the paths with quiet intent, noting the terrain, the direction of the wind, the scents of distant forest. Near the garden's edge, she glimpsed something strange—a shimmer near a gnarled old tree. Barely perceptible. Magic? The possibility lit a cold, precise interest.
By dusk, she returned to her room. Twin moons were rising again, casting silver across the faded walls. Lyra sat on the edge of her bed and looked at her hands—small, delicate, new. But steady.
Her final memories of the old world haunted her still: betrayal, dismissal, pain. But now, she would transform that pain into purpose.
She would never again be the pitiful girl left behind.
She would become something else.
Something formidable.
And this world, so full of cracks and secrets, would never see her coming.