Sleep, when it finally arrived, was thin and restless.
Not rest, exactly. More like the body shutting itself off after losing the argument.
Lyra woke before the bell, breath catching as she sat upright.
Awareness came with her, already formed.
Where she was. What had happened.
There was no fog to push through. Just weight.
Daylight filled the room completely now.
It left nowhere to retreat.
What had been a cave at night had turned into a chamber—bright, bare, unavoidable.
Beyond the window, the forest stretched out in green and gray, sharp with detail and oddly distant, as if it belonged to someone else's memory.
The scar at her collarbone pulsed.
Not sharply. Steadily.
A quiet insistence.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The rug was cold beneath her feet.
She stayed there for a moment, breathing, letting the silence press in and pass through her instead of pushing back.
The stillness felt engineered. Maintained.
It broke.
Three knocks at the door.
Soft. Efficient. Carefully measured.
Not Sion. He didn't announce himself that way.
This sound carried restraint.
"Come in," Lyra said.
Her voice came out rough, unused.
The door opened and a Beta entered.
A woman past middle age, long-faced, brown eyes kept respectfully low.
Her uniform was dark, plain, spotless.
She carried a wooden tray with a pewter kettle, a single cup, and a round loaf of bread covered with cloth.
Over her other arm were two folded garments, aligned with almost ceremonial precision.
"Good morning," the woman said, quietly, as if volume itself were regulated here.
She placed the tray on the desk without a sound.
"Your breakfast. And appropriate attire."
Lyra stood, pulling her linen tunic closer around herself.
Her eyes went first to the food. The bread looked fresh. Honest.
Then to the clothing.
She had expected excess. Silk. Ornament.
Something meant to impress or disarm.
Instead: weight.
One dress of black corduroy. Dense, fine.
The other a pale gray wool, nearly silver.
Both cut high at the neck, long at the sleeves, modest to the ankle.
No embroidery. No softness.
Nothing designed to invite.
Black and silver.
The Black Moon's colors.
Uniforms, then. Not garments. Signals.
"Master Sion expects you in the private training hall at nine," the Beta said, still not lifting her gaze.
The name landed without ceremony, like a law already in effect.
"You are to dress and present yourself. I will return for the tray."
A short inclination of her head. A clean turn.
She left.
The lock clicked from the other side.
Lyra didn't move right away.
She reached out and touched the black fabric.
It was soft, but it had gravity.
The silver wool was cool against her fingers.
Wearing them would be more than compliance.
It would be a public statement.
Ownership, declared in advance.
She looked back at the tray.
Hunger stirred, low and distant.
Then Kael's warning surfaced, clear enough to tighten her jaw.
She lifted the kettle and smelled it cautiously.
Simple herbs. Chamomile, maybe.
Nothing obviously wrong.
That didn't help.
Distrust had already taken up residence.
She tore the bread instead.
Ate slowly. Left the tea untouched.
When she undressed, the air felt sharper.
Linen slid from her shoulders.
In the full light of morning, the scar looked different.
The silver pattern was precise, deliberate.
Not a healing wound. Something settled. Almost ancient.
She dressed in layers.
The silver wool first, cool and smooth. Then the black corduroy.
The weight surprised her.
Not uncomfortable. Intentional.
It fit perfectly. Too perfectly to be coincidence.
The collar brushed her chin.
The sleeves closed over her wrists like decisions already made.
She met herself in the mirror.
The figure looking back was composed. Severe.
Older, somehow.
The dark fabric sharpened her pallor, drew attention to her eyes.
The Omega-gray student from yesterday was gone.
This version was restrained, formal, already shaped to be seen.
Lyra of the Black Moon.
At ten minutes to nine, the door opened again.
The same Beta entered, silent, collected the tray.
She noticed the bread, the untouched tea.
No reaction.
"Please follow me."
The corridor air was cold and welcome.
Lyra followed, steps muted by carpet.
At the first intersection, two men emerged from shadow without haste.
Alphas. Black and silver, but cut for movement rather than ceremony.
No armor. Swords at their hips.
Their faces were still, unreadable.
One of them—older, a pale scar tracing his temple—gave a brief nod to the Beta.
She didn't look back.
The men fell into place behind Lyra.
Three steps back. One to each side.
Understanding settled in quietly.
She wasn't a student anymore.
She was an asset. Valuable enough to guard. Important enough to watch.
Their boots echoed alongside her own.
Lyra kept her head up, eyes on the Beta's back.
The guards didn't stare. They assessed. Calculated.
Her safety was their responsibility.
Any harm to her would reflect on them—and on the man they served.
This was her status, clarified at last.
Not privilege. Control.
Complete and efficient.
Even the simple act of walking alone had been revoked.
They passed through a section of the Academy she had rarely seen.
Wider corridors. Fewer people.
Closed wooden doors with brass plaques.
Windows overlooking private courtyards.
The air smelled faintly of beeswax and something else—quiet maintained through effort.
They stopped before double doors of dark oak.
No sign marked them.
The Beta knocked once and pushed the doors open.
"Lyra for her training, Master Sion."
She stepped aside.
The private training hall was expansive.
Polished wooden floors bore the marks of long use.
One wall of windows flooded the space with cold morning light.
Another held weapons—swords, staves, knives—arranged with deliberate care.
The air carried oil, leather, and the clean residue of exertion.
Sion stood at the center.
He wasn't training. Just standing, his back to the door, facing the windows.
Simple clothes. A black long-sleeved shirt. Dark gray trousers tucked into practical boots.
His hands were clasped behind him.
Relaxed, but the space bent around his presence anyway.
As Lyra crossed the threshold, the tower clock began to strike.
The first note sounded.
Sion turned.
His eyes—gray now, stripped of ceremony—found her immediately.
He took her in without hurry.
Hair. Posture. The weight of the dress.
His face gave nothing back.
No approval. No displeasure.
Just confirmation.
The bells continued.
Nine slow strikes, heavy enough to feel underfoot.
The room absorbed them.
Lyra stopped a few steps in.
The guards remained outside.
The door closed behind her with a soft, final sound.
The last bell faded.
"Nine o'clock," Sion said.
His voice carried easily in the open space.
"Punctuality is the first mark of discipline. And discipline, Lyra, is what will keep you alive."
He approached her.
Not quickly.
His gaze shifted, clinical now, noting how she stood, how she held her arms.
"Your Omega training was useless," he went on.
"Built on submission. Passivity. That won't serve you. Not for what's coming. You'll need to defend yourself. To use what you are."
A pause.
"And what you're becoming."
He stopped at a measured distance.
Close enough to feel. Far enough to remain deliberate.
"This lesson begins now," he said.
"Everything you think you know about yourself. About this world. It's wrong. Set it aside. From today on, you learn again."
Lyra looked at him.
At the room.
At the weapons lining the wall.
The dress felt heavier with every breath.
This wasn't a meeting.
It was a beginning shaped like a command.
A life reorganized down to the minute.
And as the last echo of the bells dissolved into silence, what remained was the expectation in Sion's eyes—
—and the steady, insistent pulse beneath her collarbone, answering as if it understood exactly what was being asked of her.