After training, I ached in every limb—a deep, satisfying soreness that meant I was learning, getting stronger, maybe even earning my place here.
Sweat still cooled on my skin as I trudged through the back corridors, squires and servants giving me a wide berth, either out of respect or a polite fear that had never quite faded.
The palace baths were on the far end of the knights' wing: all marble and silver fixtures, steam curling against tall, misted mirrors.
I stripped off my practice gear, half-crusted with sand and sweat, and let the hot water pound against my back until the grit and aches dissolved, leaving only a pleasant heaviness.
Afterward, I dragged a comb through my wet hair, left it to air dry wild as ever, and pulled on the only clothes I ever wanted: a loose, worn shirt and dark trousers. Never a skirt. Never a dress.
I'd seen the way the princesses and noble girls floated around in those things—beautiful, maybe, but completely useless when you had to climb a wall or kick someone in the head.
A few younger pages scurried by, whispering, probably about the spar with Isolde. They always stared at me, as if I might sprout horns and breathe fire at any moment. I smirked to myself and rolled my eyes. Let them talk.
Princess Isolde. Even her name made my jaw clench. I couldn't count how many times I'd dragged her back from the stables, the cellars, the damned roof—anywhere she thought she could slip away.
For someone who had everything, she spent a surprising amount of energy trying to run. It was like she didn't even see what was right in front of her: parents who worried, a sister who cared, a kingdom that was hers by birthright.
She was spoiled, stubborn, impossible. And despite all that, I had to admire her persistence.
But mostly, she was a pain in my ass.
When the bell sounded for lessons, I grabbed my battered satchel—stuffed with more books than I'd ever owned—and made my way through the quieter.
I liked this part of my day. For all the grandness of the palace, learning felt like something I'd claimed for myself, not something forced on me.
My fingers still ink-stained from practicing letters, my tongue tripping over unfamiliar words, but every day I got a little better.
Today, it was Mistress Alder, the tutor with silver hair in a loose bun and kind brown eyes, who waited at the front.
She greeted me with a nod and a smile that wasn't patronizing or wary, just gentle.
"Good afternoon, Lyra. Are you ready for today's lesson?"
I sat at the front, by the window, where the light was best. "Ready as I'll ever be," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.
We started with reading—slow, careful work at first, then faster as the words made sense. I stumbled over a few, especially the ones with silent letters, but Mistress Alder never frowned or made me feel stupid.
Instead, she coaxed out the right sounds, encouraged me to try again, and praised every small victory.
By now, I could read simple stories—tales of heroes and monsters, old legends of kings and forgotten wars.
Some days, she let me pick a book for us to read aloud together.
My favorite was the one about a knight with no name, a wanderer who saved kingdoms and never asked for a reward. I liked to think I could be that kind of person, someday.
Next came writing—my penmanship still awkward, cramped, sometimes so smudged I could barely read my own words. But it improved every day.
Mistress Alder set new exercises: copying proverbs, writing sentences, then short letters. She was patient, even when I grumbled, and corrected my mistakes with gentle humor.
History came last, and that was always my favorite. She made the stories come alive, telling of the old battles that shaped the kingdom, the line of queens and kings, the great wars and strange peacetimes, the bargains struck with demons and fae.
Sometimes she'd point to the old tapestries on the classroom wall and ask me to guess which event they showed. I got it wrong most of the time, but she never made me feel small.
It was strange, how much I enjoyed it all—strange to want to learn, to want to be good at something that had nothing to do with survival or fighting.
In the orphanage, lessons were just chores or punishments. Here, they felt like a promise: that I could become more than the girl I'd been.
When the bell rang again, signaling the end of the lesson, I was almost disappointed. Mistress Alder packed my books with a warm smile.
"You learn quickly, Lyra. If you keep this up, you'll surpass my curriculum in no time."
"Thank you, Mistress," I said, my cheeks heating with pride.
She squeezed my shoulder. "And don't forget—you can always ask for extra books. The library is yours as much as any other student's."
After I left, the palace corridors had filled with the buzz of servants, the thud of boots.
My stomach rumbled. I made my way to the dining hall, ready for the day's last ritual: dinner with the royal family.
The hall was bright, voices echoing off high ceilings. The long table was already set with platters of roast duck, fresh bread, bowls of honeyed carrots, and little pastries dusted with sugar.
I took my usual seat—halfway down the table, just close enough to see and hear, but far enough to avoid feeling like I was intruding.
Princess Isolde sat directly across from me, arms folded, jaw tight, eyes narrowed in that way she had whenever she looked at me.
The bruise from our earlier spar, her pride, not her body—still colored her cheeks.
Seraphina sat beside her, already pouring wine for the queen. The king watched us all.
The meal began in the usual way: servants coming and going, platters changing hands, little bursts of polite conversation. I filled my plate with duck and bread, careful not to take more than my share. Old habits died hard.
After a while, the king cleared his throat—a quiet but unmistakable sound that brought all attention to him. "Lyra," he said, "tell us—how are you finding your lessons with Mistress Alder?"
I swallowed my mouthful of bread, surprised but oddly pleased to be addressed. "I like them, Your Majesty. She's patient. And the stories make everything more interesting."
He nodded, lips twitching in the faintest smile. "She tells me you're picking up reading and writing faster than anyone she's taught in years."
I shrugged, fighting the urge to fidget. "I want to learn. I never got the chance before."
The queen smiled at that, soft and proud, and Isolde's glare softened just a little. "What's your favorite subject, Lyra?"
"History," I said without thinking. "The old stories. The way people lived and fought and—" I hesitated, suddenly aware of how many eyes were on me. "The way things change, I guess."
The king set down his fork, folding his hands. "Change is the only constant, my father always said." He considered me for a moment, as if weighing some silent judgment. "And what do you want to do with your learning?"
I looked at him, the words bubbling up before I could stop them. "I want to be useful. I want to be more than just the girl who found the princess." The words felt dangerous, but I said them anyway.
"Ambitious," Seraphina said, her smile crooked.
"Honest," Isolde added quietly, as if the admission surprised her.
Dinner went on, light talk, questions, laughter that echoed under the high ceiling.
After dessert: a tart so sweet it made my teeth ache—the king looked at me again, more serious now.
"Lyra," he said, "we've talked with Mistress Alder, and the rest of the staff. There's something we wish to do for you, if you're willing."
I stilled, tension rippling up my spine. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
He glanced at his wife, then at his daughters. "You are joining Isolde's school."
The words dropped into the silence like a pebble into a still pond. Isolde choked on her water, Seraphina burst into delighted laughter, and I sat there, stunned, not sure if I'd heard right.
"Her school?" I repeated, just to be certain.
The king's gaze was gentle, but firm. "You will attend the Royal Academy with Isolde. You're more than ready. We think it's time you had the same opportunities as any child of the palace."
I looked at Isolde—her mouth opened and closed, like she wanted to protest but couldn't find the words.
Then her eyes met mine, and that looks was disapointement.
The queen reached across the table, laying a warm hand over mine. "We're proud of you, Lyra. And we want you to know you truly belong here."
I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I just nodded, hope and anxiety and a strange, growing excitement swelling in my chest. I'm going to school.