For the first time in weeks, the sky above the capital was not gray. It was a clear blue—almost offensively cheerful—swept by winds carrying the scent of the sea and the flowers from noble balconies.
Lyra decided to go out.
Not for herself. For the children.
Milo and Sari—their names small, whispered, as if they feared taking up too much space by saying them aloud—were clean, fed, and safe in Elion's house. But they were not alive.
They existed in a constant state of alert, flinching at the sound of footsteps, eating too quickly as if the plate might be taken away at any moment.
It had been Elion's idea. The Acacia Gardens, he had said before leaving for the Council. It's safe. Walled. Only the nobility is allowed in.
Lyra agreed—but on new terms.
The carriage that took them was not alone. Two guards of House Seravel rode alongside it, grim, armed, eyes sweeping every corner.
This time, Lyra did not complain about the escort. Fear was still a physical memory on her skin.
The ride revealed the capital in all its cruel glory.
Lyra watched through the window. The buildings were not merely structures; they were monuments. White-stone towers clawing at the sky, arched bridges wrapped in ivy, statues of ancient heroes in plazas where clean water spilled from sculpted fountains.
Everything was symmetrical. Everything was clean.
There was no trace of the filth of the alleys Aurelian had walked through.
The capital was a well-told lie in marble and gold.
When the carriage stopped at the wrought-iron gates of the Acacia Gardens, the guards dismounted first.
"Area secure, my lady," one said, offering a hand to help her down.
The park was a breath of green in the heart of stone.
Lawns trimmed with scissors, ancient trees casting cool shadows, artificial lakes where swans swam with the arrogance of creatures who knew they were untouchable. Other families were there—women with lace parasols, nannies watching children who ran and laughed too loudly.
Lyra chose a secluded spot beneath a willow, far from the curious glances already drifting toward her ears and toward the two children trailing behind her like frightened ducklings.
"You can play," Lyra said, spreading a blanket on the grass. "No one will scold you. The grass is meant to be stepped on."
Milo, six years old, looked at the grass as if it were made of glass.
Sari, the younger one, clutched Lyra's skirt and buried her face in it.
"Go on," Lyra encouraged, her chest tightening. "Run."
They didn't.
They sat at the edge of the blanket, legs crossed, hands folded in their laps. Waiting.
Because slaves don't run. Slaves wait for orders.
The inadequacy rose in Lyra's throat.
She had taken them out of a cage. Taken them out of Aurelian's house. Challenged the General, thrown gold on his table, feeling like the heroine of her own story.
But now, faced with real damage, her anger felt useless.
She knew how to save bodies.
She didn't know how to repair minds.
"Let's try this," she said, pulling a soft leather ball from her bag.
She rolled the ball toward Milo.
The boy caught it. Looked at her.
"Throw it to Sari," Lyra instructed, smiling, trying to hide the sadness.
Milo threw it—weakly. The ball rolled barely a foot.
Sari picked it up and rolled it back.
Mechanical. No laughter. No life.
Lyra sighed and lay back on the grass, frustrated, staring up at the willow leaves.
What am I doing? I'm just as broken as they are.
That was when the ball slipped away.
A bad pass from Sari—slightly too strong—and the leather ball rolled down the small slope toward the path of white stones.
Milo started to rise to fetch it—then froze when boots stopped the toy.
Fine leather boots. Light brown. Polished.
Not heavy black military boots.
"I believe this belongs to you."
The voice was honey—warm, vibrant, without sharp edges.
Lyra sat up in a flash. Elion's guards already had their hands on their sword hilts, stepping forward.
The man raised a hand, asking for calm with a conciliatory smile.
He was not just any man.
Lord Cassian Aurelio Valen stood on the path.
Where Aurelian seemed to absorb the light around him, Cassian reflected it. He wore beige and gold tones, no cloak, only an elegant vest. The afternoon sun made his hair gleam.
He did not look at Lyra.
He crouched down—right there on the dirt path, unconcerned about his expensive trousers.
He brought himself to the children's height.
"Nice throw," he said to Sari, turning the ball in his hands.
The girl recoiled, hiding behind her brother.
"You don't need to be afraid," Cassian continued softly. "I'm Cassian. And you must be Sari. And you are Milo."
A chill ran through Lyra that had nothing to do with the wind.
She stood.
"How do you know their names?" she asked.
Cassian rose slowly, returning the ball to the boy with a gentle motion.
Only then did he look at her.
His eyes were light brown, intelligent—seeing everything without judging anything.
"Lord Valen," Lyra said, offering a short, defensive curtsy.
"Lyra," he replied, discarding formality. "I know their names because it's my work to know who moves in and out of this city's shadows. Especially when they are… such special cases."
He walked into the willow's shade. The guards relaxed slightly at the sight of the Curator, though they did not step away.
"It was a noble gesture," Cassian said, watching the children, who now clutched the ball, mesmerized by his presence. "Confronting General Aurelian in his own house. Taking these children out of his grasp."
Lyra stiffened.
"You know?"
"Walls have ears, my dear. And the General's walls tend to echo with anger quite often." He smiled, conspiratorial. "Few would have the courage to do what you did. Most tremble before him. You… you challenged him."
He validated her version of events.
Relief washed over Lyra. She wasn't crazy. Aurelian was the villain—and she had done the right thing by taking the children away.
"I took them," Lyra said, looking at Milo and Sari, still motionless. "But I don't know what to do now. They… they don't play. They don't forget."
Cassian nodded, his expression shifting into something deeply compassionate, almost painful.
"The trauma of waiting," he said. "They don't know how to be free yet because they're still waiting for the next punishment."
He took a respectful step closer—not invading her space.
"Love is essential, Lyra. And you have plenty to give. But love alone does not heal the mind. It requires technique."
"Technique?"
"I have an institute. The Sun Shelter," he said humbly, without pride. "We have tutors specialized in children who survived trafficking. Psychologists. Play therapists. They teach them how to play again. How to breathe."
Lyra looked at him. It was the perfect solution. Exactly what she had thought minutes earlier: I don't know how to fix them.
"Would you… help them?" she asked.
Cassian smiled.
"I already am, Lyra. I only need your permission. I can send a tutor to Elion's house three times a week. No cost. No obligation. Just… to help these children run the way they should."
It was irresistible.
It was kind.
It was the opposite of Aurelian's cold, transactional cruelty.
"I accept," Lyra said. "Thank you, Lord Valen."
"Cassian, please."
He bowed to her, then waved to the children. Milo, timidly, waved back.
"The world is harsh, Lyra," Cassian said before leaving, his voice low. "Don't carry the burden of fixing it alone. Let those who know how to bear it help."
He returned to the sunlit path, walking lightly away.
Lyra watched him go.
For the first time in days, the suffocating pressure eased.
Aurelian caused the problem.
Cassian offered the solution.
She did not notice, however, that by accepting the tutor she had just opened the doors of Elion's house—and the children's lives—to the eyes and ears of a man who collected rare things.
And now, he had direct access to her.