The summons came at dawn, carried on parchment stamped with the black sun of the Imperial crest. It was not handed to her with respect. A guard shoved it into her palm as if she were a criminal being served judgment.
Lyra's fingers trembled as she unfolded it. The letters were written in a precise, elegant hand, the ink sharp and glistening.
Attend the Empress. Immediate.
No explanation. No courtesy. Only command.
The parchment felt heavier than steel.
Her heart pressed against her ribs, frantic like a bird trapped in a cage. She had seen the Empress only from afar during ceremonies, always seated upon the Dragon Throne like some immortal being sculpted from ivory and flame. Seraphina was not the kind of woman who wasted her gaze on servants. For her to notice Lyra at all was already perilous. For her to summon her…
Zara found her pacing the servant's quarters, eyes wide, lips drained of color.
"What happened?" she whispered, as if the walls themselves might be listening.
Lyra handed over the parchment. Zara read it once, twice, then clutched her arm so tightly it hurt.
"You can't go. It's a trap."
"I have no choice," Lyra murmured. Her voice was thin, stripped of its usual sharpness. "If I disobey, I'm dead before nightfall."
The guards returned before Zara could argue. They flanked Lyra on either side, faceless behind their helms, their silence more frightening than insults. They marched her through the palace corridors that she had always scrubbed on her knees but never walked freely.
She noticed details differently now: the sheen of marble that reflected torchlight like liquid gold, the carved dragons coiled around pillars, their jaws frozen mid-snarl, the endless portraits of emperors with eyes that seemed to follow her. Everything breathed power, the kind that pressed against her skin and tried to smother her smallness.
When they reached the inner palace, the air changed. Perfume lingered, sharp as crushed orchids, mixed with the faint metallic tang of incense. It made her dizzy.
At last, the guards halted before a door of lacquered black wood, inlaid with jade serpents that writhed as if alive. One guard pushed it open, the sound of its hinges low and echoing, like the groan of something ancient and hungry.
Lyra stepped inside.
The chamber was dim, lit by a hundred candles that painted the walls in trembling gold. At the center, upon a dais of red silk, sat Empress Seraphina.
She was not what Lyra expected. Beauty, yes, but of a cold and merciless kind. Her hair fell like a river of midnight, unpinned, as though to say that even in private she commanded the world. Her robes shimmered with threads of starlight. But it was her eyes that paralyzed Lyra, the color of molten amber, bright and depthless, as if they could see not only through flesh but through thought.
"So," the Empress said softly, her voice rippling across the room like silk being drawn over a blade, "this is the girl."
Lyra dropped into a bow, forehead nearly touching the polished floor. "Your Majesty."
A long silence followed, so heavy that Lyra began to wonder if she had spoken wrongly. Then Seraphina's lips curved. It was not a smile. More like the faint curl of smoke before fire devoured a house.
"Raise your head."
Lyra obeyed. She felt the Empress's gaze crawl over her, not in admiration, but in dissection. As if stripping away flesh to measure the bones beneath.
"You have stirred quite the whispers," Seraphina said. "A servant girl who somehow slips through the prince's tests. A girl whose presence unsettles those around her. A girl he seems… interested in."
Her tone lingered on the word interested like venom dripping slow.
Lyra's stomach twisted. She could feel the trap closing. To deny would sound like false modesty. To admit would be madness.
"I am nothing but a servant," she said quickly. "I have done nothing to earn the Prince's notice."
"Lies bore me," Seraphina murmured. Her fingers tapped the armrest of her throne, each tap echoing like a drop of water in a cavern. "You will learn, girl, that truth in this palace is not what you think it is. Truth is what I declare it to be."
Lyra's throat tightened. She wanted to look away but couldn't. Those amber eyes held her as easily as chains.
The Empress leaned forward. "Tell me… do you wish to live?"
The question stunned her. Not do you serve faithfully or do you understand your place. No, Seraphina cut straight to the bone.
"Yes," Lyra whispered. "I wish to live."
"Good." A faint trace of satisfaction curved Seraphina's lips. "Then you will listen closely. The court is a nest of vipers. If you walk alone, they will bite you until nothing remains but bone. But under my shadow… no one dares strike. Understand?"
It was an offer, yet not truly an offer. A command veiled as kindness.
Lyra's pulse raced. She thought of the Sovereign's dying words in her dream, of shadows whispering warnings. To ally herself with the Empress would be to enter another labyrinth. But refusal was unthinkable.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she said, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest.
The Empress's gaze lingered, sharp, searching for cracks. Finding none, she reclined once more. "Good girl. You may go. But remember… protection has its price. One day I will name it."
Lyra bowed again, head spinning, breath shallow. She wanted to flee but her body obeyed the slow dignity demanded of her.
As she reached the door, Seraphina's voice drifted after her, soft as a dagger slipped between ribs.
"Tell me, Lyra. When the Prince looks at you… does your heart quicken?"
Lyra froze.
The silence stretched, unbearable. She did not answer. Could not.
And Seraphina laughed, low and knowing, as if she had already heard the truth in Lyra's silence.
The door closed behind her, heavy and final.
Outside, Lyra pressed a trembling hand against her chest. Her heart was still racing, not just from fear.
And that terrified her most of all.