Time did what time always does—it moved forward, gently and without pause.
Lyra had grown. Now ten years old, her face had begun to shed its baby-soft roundness, replaced by sharper glimmers of her mother's beauty and her father's steel. The household had changed as well. Her father, Lord Auren, once a cold fortress, had softened. He no longer flinched at her presence. He called her "my daughter" in public. The walls, once lined with whispers and disdain, now only murmured when they thought she couldn't hear.
Lady Siora remained her constant—kind, firm, and watchful. She oversaw Lyra's lessons, her meals, and sometimes even her dreams.
Lyra studied alongside the other children of the house. At first, the others avoided her like shadow avoids light. But children are less bound by legacy than their elders. Slowly, friendships bloomed—fragile and soft. The days passed with laughter, ink-stained fingers, and whispered dares behind ivy walls.
Then one autumn morning, something changed.
At the break of dawn, a strange report came from the guards at the southern watchtower.
An old woman had arrived on foot. No banner. No escort.
She stood just beyond the outer threshold, unmoving, cloaked in a patchwork robe of mossy greens and earthen browns. Her face was veiled in frayed silk, and where her eyes should have been, twin moons of pale cloud stared sightless—and yet, she saw.
The guards, uneasy, asked her name. She gave none.
Her voice was brittle, yet carried like wind through leaves:
"The child is dreaming again. The veil grows thin. I must see her."
The captain, loyal and suspicious, denied her entry.
She did not argue. She simply turned and disappeared into the woods behind her, though none could recall her footsteps ever touching the earth.
That very night, Lyra dreamed.
At first, it was only mist—cool and silver, curling through her fingers.
Then she was standing in a grove of starlight. Trees arched high above her like cathedral spires. The air shimmered with memory.
A voice called her name.
She turned.
"Mama...?"
Elira stood beneath the branches, her hair a cascade of silver like moonlight made flesh. Her eyes—oh, her eyes—were filled with tears and joy. She opened her arms, and Lyra ran into them without hesitation.
She smelled of jasmine and rain. And when she touched Lyra's cheek, a quiet warmth bloomed—just like the relic in the cellar had once done. A deep, golden pulse, as if the world itself remembered them.
"My star," Elira whispered, pressing her lips to Lyra's brow. "My brave, beautiful Lyra. I've missed you."
They sat together beneath the dreaming trees. Elira brushed her daughter's hair with her fingers, sang fragments of lullabies long forgotten, and laughed—oh, how she laughed—and Lyra felt whole.
But even dreams must shift.
The air grew thick. The light began to dim. Elira's fingers trembled around Lyra's.
"Listen, Lyra. The darkness stirs again. It has begun watching you."
Her voice changed—no longer just a mother's love, but something older, heavier, meant to be remembered.
"You must find him—the one bound by fate. The one the prophecy named—he bears the mark of the mourning star."
A hush fell.
Then wind tore through the grove, scattering stars like ash. Elira clung to Lyra, trying to say something more—but her words dissolved.
"Beware… there are those who—"
Gone.
Elira vanished into mist.
And Lyra woke, her hand clutching nothing but air, her pillow wet with tears.
She sat quietly through breakfast, her mind replaying every word, every touch, of the dream. She said nothing to her father, nor to the steward who delivered her books. But her silence caught the eye of Lady Siora.
That afternoon, Siora summoned her to the rose chamber.
"You're too quiet today," Siora said gently. "Even for you."
Lyra looked at her feet. Then up.
"I had a dream."
Siora folded her hands.
"A bad one?"
"No… not bad. Mama was there." Lyra's voice trembled. "She hugged me. Called me her star."
Siora's eyes glistened, but she said nothing.
"She told me the darkness is watching. She said I need to find someone... someone bound by fate."
She hesitated.
"She tried to tell me something more, but I couldn't hear it. The wind took her voice away."
Siora leaned closer, her voice steady despite the chill that had crept into the room.
"Did she touch you, in the dream?"
Lyra nodded.
"Her touch was warm. Like the relic."
For a long moment, Siora stared past her. Then she exhaled slowly.
"Dreams can be more than dreams, Lyra. Sometimes they are echoes. Sometimes... warnings."
Lyra tilted her head.
"Do you believe in prophecy?"
"I believe in you."
That night, while the stars stared silently through the windowpane, Lyra sat curled in her bed, heart thrumming.
She whispered to herself, as if hoping her mother could still hear:
"I'll find him, Mama. Whoever he is. I'll find him."
And far beyond the walls of the manor, deep in a forgotten cave, something ancient stirred in its slumber. The world was shifting again.
The dream had been the first whisper.
Now came the watching.