The night wrapped around Lyra like a shawl of whispering silver. The stars burned brighter than they had in months, their reflections trembling in the small pool beside her campfire.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep. But as her eyes drifted closed, the soft hum of the night deepened into something older… vaster.
And then —
She was standing in a field of light.
The air shimmered gold and blue, and the sky above was an endless dawn. The world around her seemed alive — grass bending not to wind but to music, each blade singing faintly in tune with her heartbeat.
"Where… am I?"
Her voice echoed like a note in a cathedral.
Then she heard it — a voice she remembered from the mirror.
Soft, strong, sorrowful.
"You are in the memory between heartbeats."
Lyra turned.
A woman stood before her — tall, radiant, wrapped in robes the color of dawnlight. Her hair shone like molten copper, her eyes grey as rain on stone.
Lyra's breath caught. "Mother."
The woman smiled — a smile like sunlight on a river.
"My Lyra."
They stood facing each other, the world hushed around them.
The air trembled with things unspoken.
"I saw you," Lyra whispered. "In the mirror. You said the shadows hadn't won."
Her mother nodded slowly. "And they have not. But the war is not yet over. My time ended before its song was finished — but yours, my child, has just begun."
Lyra swallowed. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did everyone let me grow up not knowing who I am?"
A shadow crossed her mother's face.
"Because knowing the truth too soon would have destroyed you. Because your power, once woken, cannot be unmade."
She reached forward, her hand ghosting over Lyra's cheek — warm, though she was only light.
"You carry both of us within you — my light, and your father's fire. But such gifts burn the world around them unless the heart is steady."
"Father," Lyra said softly. "I saw him in the carvings. Who was he really?"
Her mother turned, and the air rippled. The field dissolved into a vision — a memory replayed in living color.
They stood now in a great hall of white marble.
Firelight flickered on banners of gold and crimson. At the center stood a man — tall, dark-haired, his eyes bright as stormlight. He was dressed not as a king, but as a warrior.
Her mother's voice whispered beside her.
"That is your father, Arion of the Flameguard. He was born not of light, but of fire — the other half of the prophecy."
Lyra watched as the man turned, laughing, drawing the woman into his arms.
The joy in their faces was fierce and pure — the kind that belongs to people who know the world is fragile.
"They called us heresy," her mother said softly. "Light and flame were never meant to join. But we loved anyway. And from that love, you came."
The hall trembled. A sound like thunder rolled across the memory — not from the sky, but from within the palace itself.
Shadows began to crawl along the marble, blotting out the gold.
Her mother's voice grew quiet.
"That day, the corruption broke through the veil. Malgar, my brother, betrayed us."
Lyra's heart lurched. "Your brother?"
"Once, he was the guardian of the deep halls. But envy ate him hollow. He believed the light should bow to the dark — that the dawn should never rise without permission of the night. He struck while we slept."
The memory shuddered — and suddenly, flames consumed the hall. The walls screamed as they fell. Her father raised his sword, its edge red with divine fire, cutting through shadow after shadow — until one struck him through the chest.
Lyra cried out, reaching toward him — but her hand passed through air.
Her mother's image turned to her, tears like light streaming down her face.
"He died so you could live. I sealed you in the cradle of the dawn and sent you beyond the veil. I stayed behind to contain the darkness."
Her voice broke.
"But the curse bound me to the thorns. My body turned to stone, my spirit to memory."
Lyra fell to her knees. "Then the palace—"
"Yes," her mother said softly. "The Palace of Dawn became the Palace of Thorns. My body lies at its heart. The vines that coil around it feed on both our light and Malgar's shadow."
The field began to tremble, the colors bleeding into one another.
"You must go there, Lyra. Find the heart. Free me. And when you do—"
The woman bent close, her grey eyes burning bright.
"Do not seek to destroy the darkness. It cannot die. It can only be balanced."
Lyra's throat tightened. "I don't know if I'm strong enough."
Her mother smiled — faint, sad, and proud.
"You are the song we never finished, my love. Sing it true."
The light broke apart — a storm of silver petals swirling upward into the void.
Lyra reached for her mother's hand, but her fingers closed on air. The field dissolved into night once more.
When she awoke, dawn was rising — pale gold spilling over the horizon. Her sword lay beside her, glowing faintly, as if it too had dreamed.
Crowley dozed on a branch above. Ursa and Tallo still slept. The valley below was quiet — for now.
Lyra touched the sigil on her wrist.
It pulsed once — bright and steady.
"Balance," she whispered.
Then she stood, eyes fixed on the palace wrapped in thorns.
The wind caught her hair, carrying her mother's last words through the morning air — a whisper only she could hear.
"Sing it true."