Lyra began her search for answers the very next morning. The dream had settled like a stone in her chest, one that wouldn't stop pressing.
She asked everyone—the tutor, the priest, the old stable hand who had once served in the war. No one knew of a man with the mark of the mourning star. The name meant nothing. The prophecy, even less. She scoured the manor's modest library, and when that proved too small, she begged Auren to allow her access to the sealed archives in the western wing.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Books, scrolls, crumbling journals. Nothing.
She grew more frustrated with each fruitless search. The feeling from the dream hadn't left her. The urgency. The echo.
And then one afternoon, as dust danced in the golden beam of a fading sun, she sat cross-legged with an old book in her lap—a weathered volume on myths and war relics. Her eyes scanned a page halfheartedly when she heard it.
A voice.
"He waits... still."
She turned sharply. No one was there.
She blinked, rubbed her ears. Maybe it was exhaustion. She hadn't slept properly in days. Maybe she was hearing things.
That night, it returned.
"Go find him. He has been waiting for you."
The voice was softer now. Closer. And with it came a flash—an image burned into her thoughts like fire behind her eyes. A cave. A towering door sealed in stone. A slumbering figure within.
She shot upright in her bed, breath ragged.
But when she tried to hold onto the vision, it slipped away. She couldn't remember his face. Only the feeling: he was waiting.
Years Passed.
Lyra grew. Her limbs lengthened, her voice deepened with grace. She trained in history, swordplay, diplomacy. Auren insisted on it. He wanted her prepared, though he would never say what for.
By her eighteenth year, she was no longer the odd girl with the faraway gaze. She was a lady of the house now. Respected. Watched. Adored by many, feared by some.
And so, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, the manor buzzed with life.
Lanterns were strung from marble pillars to trellised walls. Musicians tuned lutes and flutes in the garden court. Carriages arrived in waves, bearing noble guests from across the region—all eager to see the mysterious daughter of Lord Auren.
Tables overflowed with wine and roasted pheasant, honeyed fruits and spiced bread. Laughter rang through the halls, and Lyra, dressed in violet silk and silver combs, smiled with a grace taught by Siora and forged by silence.
For a few hours, joy reigned.
Even Auren allowed himself a rare moment of stillness. He watched her from the dais, drink in hand, eyes not entirely shadowed.
But not everyone was content to simply celebrate.
Siora and Auren
Later, when the guests had begun to drift into drink and dance, Siora approached Auren in the inner hall. Away from the feast. Her expression was unreadable.
"You know what this night means," she said quietly.
Auren didn't turn.
"It means she's grown."
"It means she's ready."
He sipped his wine.
"She doesn't need to know any of it. Not yet."
"She's already dreaming. The voices have started again. You know what that means."
"It means we protect her."
"It means we prepare her, Auren. Or have you forgotten what Elira died for?"
His hand tightened around the goblet.
"Don't speak of her. Not now."
Siora's voice softened.
"Then when? When the stars fall? When the doors open and she stands alone because we chose silence over strength?"
They stood in tense quiet, the music of the feast muffled by stone.
In the hall beyond, Lyra laughed with her friends, unaware of the storm slowly waking.
And outside the walls of the manor, deep within the shadowed groves and forgotten paths, something ancient stirred.
The celebration had begun.
And so had the unraveling.