Lyra stood at the edge of the aerial landing terrace, high above the swirling cloud rivers of Celestia, and tried to let the wind strip the battle from her skin.
It was the same wind she'd felt as a child—brisk, biting, alive with the scent of frost-flowers and ozone.
It swept through the star-lit peaks, carrying with it the faintest glimmer of the city's music. But none of that touched her now, not really.
She wasn't a child anymore, and the home she returned to was different from the place she'd left.
She didn't come home often. There was always another mission, another council summons, another battle with a broken monster or a corrupted crystal.
She could have stayed at the university, prepared for the duel in the endless marble silence, and let her family receive the news in some formal envelope with too much gold ink. But she was Lyra.
She would do this herself, with her own words, and face what came.
The gate recognized her presence and dissolved in a shimmer of pale fire. She stepped through into the small stone courtyard a familiar tapestry of memory and magic.
Lilac bushes climbed the walls, spilling purple flowers over the path. The wind chimes her little sister had made from old crystal fragments sang a lopsided tune above the door.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
She set her pack down, brushed the dust from her cloak, and pressed her hand to the door. The sigil glowed, unlocking with a gentle click.
A moment later, a high, excited voice rang out from the kitchen. "Mom! Lyra's back!"
A blur of silver hair and too-big eyes crashed into her waist her sister, Elin, seven years old and wild as a storm, wrapped both arms around Lyra's middle.
Lyra grunted, caught off guard, and hugged her back careful, as always, not to let any residual fire magic slip into her touch.
"You're early!" Elin declared, bouncing on her toes.
"You promised you'd come for Solstice, but it's not Solstice yet! Did you bring me something? Was it dangerous? Did you fight a monster?" The words tumbled out like marbles across marble, clattering and shining.
Lyra crouched to her level, smoothing a hand over Elin's tangled hair. "I always bring you something," she said, pulling a tiny, perfectly cut amethyst from her pocket.
She pressed it into Elin's hand, watching her face light up. "But yes. I fought a monster. It was dangerous. I won."
Elin beamed, eyes wide with awe. "I want to be just like you when I grow up. Mom says I have your temper, too." She stuck out her chin with pride.
Lyra laughed, short and dry. "Let's hope not. My temper causes trouble."
From the kitchen, her mother's voice drifted through the hall. "Let your sister breathe, Elin."
Lyra straightened, smoothing her cloak. "Go on. Tell Mom I'm here."
Elin shot off down the corridor, already shouting again, "She's home! She's really home!"
Lyra took a moment at the threshold, steadying herself. Her heart beat just a little faster.
She had always loved her mother, fiercely, but their conversations never ran shallow. There was no casual softness between them. Only truth, and sometimes, the cold fire of pride.
She entered the kitchen.
The room was warm, lit by a sky-window that spilled gold over every polished surface. Her mother stood at the counter, hands dusted with flour, rolling out dough for the traditional starbread.
She was tall and striking, with hair the same silver as Lyra's but cut in a severe bob, and a posture so perfect it could have been chiseled from ice.
Her eyes, dark as hematite, caught Lyra's in a gaze that was both weighing and welcoming.
"Welcome home, Lyra," her mother said. The words were soft, but they landed with the weight of tradition.
Lyra's throat tightened. "Thank you, Mom."
Elin danced around the table, showing off her new amethyst. "Look, look! It's got sparkles! Lyra says it's from a monster she killed, isn't that amazing?"
Their mother only nodded, pressing the star mold into the dough with precise, deliberate force. "I see. And what kind of monster was it this time?"
Lyra shrugged off her cloak and hung it by the door. "A fused crystal. Rage and despair. It was large, but slow. Easy to predict."
Her mother's lips thinned. "I wish you didn't speak of these things so lightly."
"It's not lightness, Mother. It's accuracy."
Silence stretched for a moment. Then her mother brushed the flour from her hands and wiped them on a cloth. "Wash up, both of you. Dinner is nearly ready."
Elin scampered to the sink, and Lyra followed. The water was icy, stinging her knuckles, but she welcomed it.
She scrubbed the dust from her hands, watching as traces of purple flame flickered in the drain, too faint for Elin to see.
They ate in the garden. The evening air was soft and full of moths, and the sky above was split by a thousand shimmering stars.
Elin talked endlessly, about school, about the bird that kept stealing buttons from her window, about the new apprentice at the bakery who had tripped and fallen into a basket of flour.
Lyra listened, glad for the distraction, but all the while she felt her mother's gaze—measured, waiting.
At last, when Elin ran off to hunt for star-moss in the dark, her mother leaned forward, fingers laced beneath her chin.
"You didn't come home for Solstice. Or for rest. Why are you here, Lyra?"
There it was. The moment she'd been dreading.
She held her mother's gaze, searching for softness and finding none. "I wanted to tell you myself. I've been chosen for the Concordance Duel."
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to go silent. Even the moths paused in their fluttering.
Her mother's jaw tightened. She leaned back, folding her arms, the movement graceful and severe. "Of course you have. You're the best they have."
"It isn't about that," Lyra said quietly. "It's about the politics. The council wants a strong show. They think a clean win will discourage demon aggression."
Her mother's eyes darkened. "A strong show? Is that what they call it now? Parade our children before the demons and let them set the rules? All for pride—always for pride. There's no honor in it."
Lyra pressed her lips together, weighing her words. "It's better than open war, Mother. I've seen what happens when the peace breaks. You remember the fires. The streets—"
Her mother's hand slammed the table, startling a night-bird into flight.
"And I remember who started those fires. The demons, Lyra. All of them. They're nothing but brutes—rude, crass, obsessed with victory and incapable of restraint. They don't care about our ways, our dignity, or our lives. They'll do anything to win, and our council lets them. Lets us be their entertainment."
Lyra kept her voice level. "This isn't about entertainment. It's about preventing more dead children."
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "Is that what they tell you? That this contest makes us safe?"
Lyra felt a twinge of frustration—old, familiar. "Do you think I wanted this, Mother? That I asked for it?"
Her mother's anger cooled a fraction. "No. I know you didn't. But I wish they'd chosen someone else. Anyone else. You're…you're all I have left, Lyra."
Lyra's chest ached. She looked away, into the garden shadows where Elin's laughter drifted faintly.
"I'll be careful," she said. "I always am."
Her mother shook her head. "Careful isn't always enough. Not with demons. Not with the games they play."
They sat in silence for a long moment, each tracing the pattern of constellations in the sky, each avoiding the sharpest truths.
Finally, her mother spoke, voice softer. "You're still my daughter. No matter what politics they wrap you in. You remember that."
Lyra nodded, swallowing against the ache in her throat. "I will."
Elin burst back into the circle of lamplight, star-moss in hand. "I found it! I found the biggest piece!"
Lyra smiled for her, genuine this time, and held out her palm. "Let's see."
They spent the rest of the evening in the garden, searching for shapes in the stars and telling stories of the heroes who had come before—stories Lyra had heard a hundred times, but which always sounded different when told in her mother's voice.
She let the comfort of home seep into her bones, storing it away for the battles ahead.
The night was deep when she slipped into her old room. The walls were still painted with shifting starlight, the bed just a touch too short for her grown body.
She undressed slowly, letting her armor clatter into the chest at the foot of the bed, and lay on her back, staring up at the glowing constellations.
She thought of her mother's anger—so raw, so justified. She thought of the fire in her own blood, and how it had set her apart from the other students, made her both admired and alone.
But most of all, she thought of the coming duel. Of the demon she would face.
They were all the same, her mother said—rude, without dignity. Monsters in flesh.
Lyra had seen some of them, it was true. Brutal, reckless, dangerous. But she had also seen mercy in unlikely places, and cruelty among her own. She had learned not to trust easy categories.
But she would never admit that aloud.
She closed her eyes, letting the ache in her chest burn itself away. In a few days, she would leave again, perhaps for good. She would carry her mother's hopes and her own doubts into battle.
She would not lose.