Elion's house was silent in a way Lyra had never known.
Unlike the ship, where silence meant fear, or the port, where it meant threat, here silence was… space.Each corridor seemed to breathe safety. The wooden floors creaked only beneath her own steps; the air carried the warm scent of a hearth and old books.There were no shouted orders.No assessing stares.Only permission to exist.
Elion led her to a room at the back of the house. It was simple, but to Lyra, it felt like a palace.A bed with clean sheets. A window that opened onto a garden, not bars. And most important of all: a desk with an inkwell and paper.
"Here," Elion said, touching the wood of the desk. "You can settle in. If you need anything, just ask."
Lyra ran her fingers over the blank paper. The texture was soft."Thank you… sir," she murmured, eyes shining, unable to accept such generosity without suspicion.
Elion smiled—a smile that reached his eyes."You don't need to call me that," he said quietly. "Here, you serve no one. Make yourself comfortable."
Lyra nodded.
That first night, she didn't sleep in the bed.She slept on the floor beside it.Comfort was so unfamiliar it still felt like a trap.
The weeks that followed were made of small steps.Elion never rushed her. He gave her books. He gave her time.
But the peace of Elion's house had a recurring flaw.
Aurelian.
The General appeared without warning, entering the house as if he owned the very air it contained.He always carried that unstable, electric presence—a blend of military authority and aristocratic boredom.
One rainy afternoon, Lyra and Elion were in the library.The scene was peaceful. Elion was explaining the structure of a complex sentence, his voice calm, patient. Lyra absorbed every word like water in a desert.
The door slammed open.
Aurelian entered. Boots caked with mud, a wet cloak tossed carelessly over a velvet chair.
Lyra froze.
The instinct from the hold returned in an instant. She shrank into her seat, making herself small, invisible.
Aurelian didn't look at her.He dropped onto the opposite sofa, stretching out his long legs.
"The council is a nest of rats," he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. "Three hours arguing trade routes I already solved in practice."
He sighed, turning his head toward Lyra.He didn't look at her. He looked through her.
"My throat's dry," he said casually, snapping his fingers. "Elf, bring the red wine. The southern vintage."
The silence in the room changed texture. It sharpened.
Lyra rose automatically. Her body obeyed before her mind. Invisible chains pulled at her limbs.She took a step toward the door.
"Sit down, Lyra."
Elion's voice wasn't loud.But it stopped the entire room.
Aurelian raised an eyebrow, confused."What's this? I'm thirsty. She knows where the cellar is."
Elion closed the book he'd been reading. The movement was slow, deliberate.He looked at his cousin with a seriousness he rarely showed.
"Lyra is not a servant in this house, Aurelian."
Aurelian let out a short, dry laugh."She's living here. Eating your food. What's the problem with pouring a glass? Seems like a fair exchange."
"There is no exchange," Elion replied. "Lyra is a guest. And my student. Not a maid."
The General's eyes finally focused on Lyra.There was something there—assessment. Disdain. And a flicker of irritation at having his authority questioned over something as… insignificant as her dignity.
"Student," Aurelian repeated, as if the word were a private joke.
He stood.
Walked over to the table where they'd been studying.Lyra held her breath. His scent—rain, leather, old wine—invaded her space, suffocating.
He picked up the sheet of paper she had been filling.Looked at the trembling handwriting, the still-uncertain letters.
"Crooked letters," he said, tossing the paper back onto the desk dismissively. "If you're going to be a student, at least learn how to hold a pen properly."
He leaned over her. Too close.
"Human script requires firmness. Intention. You write like you're apologizing for using ink."
He took her hand.
His skin was warm, rough. The touch sent bile rising in Lyra's throat. She wanted to scream, yank her hand away, run.But he was the General. And she—despite everything Elion said—still felt the chains.
"Like this," Aurelian said, forcing her hand to slash across the page with violence. The line came out thick, dark. "Faster, elf. There's no secret to it. Hesitation is failure."
"Let her go, Aurelian."
This time, Elion stood.
Aurelian released Lyra's hand, laughing, and turned toward the cellar as if the tension in the room were mere imagination.
"You're all too sensitive," he said over his shoulder. "I'll serve myself, since the 'guest' is untouchable."
When he left the room, Lyra stared at her hand.There was a red mark where he had gripped her.
But more than that, there was the writing on the paper.
His line was perfect. Strong. Dominant.Hers, beside it, looked weak.
"I'm sorry," Elion said, approaching. He didn't touch her. He respected her space. "He shouldn't have—"
"No," Lyra interrupted. Her voice was low, but steady.
She looked at the door the General had gone through.She felt the anger burning in her chest, mixed with the shame of having obeyed, of having trembled.
But she felt something else, too.
She looked back at the paper.
Aurelian had been right about one thing: hesitation was failure.
"Teach me," she said to Elion, eyes fixed on the General's violent stroke of ink. "Teach me everything."
"Lyra…"
"I don't just want to read, Elion." She raised her eyes to the gentle cousin. "I want to understand how men like him think. So no one ever has to hold my hand again to tell me what to do."
Elion nodded—sad, but proud.
Aurelian thought he had merely humiliated a former slave.He didn't realize that, in that moment, he had just created his most dangerous enemy.