I woke early, before the sunlight had crept across my bedroom ceiling, but sleep had never come easy these past few nights.
My mind turned in anxious circles—worrying, resenting, planning, always returning to the same stubborn refrain: Today, I will not let Lyra ruin my life.
The palace was silent as I dressed. My uniform hung ready over the foot of my bed: a crisp white blouse, a pale blue vest with silver buttons, a skirt the color of twilight, and tall socks folded just so.
As I dressed, my thoughts marched in lockstep. Today, I would ignore Lyra Skyblade. She had become a shadow in my days, an infuriating echo of my failures and the source of every lost escape.
She had even bested me in front of the knights—something I still seethed about whenever I closed my eyes. I will ignore her today.
The thought gave me a bitter satisfaction as I fastened the last button on my vest and stepped into the hall, feeling armoured in indifference.
The royal wing was already stirring: maids with baskets of linens, footmen with polished boots, my mother's voice soft and distant as she reviewed the day's schedule with her steward.
I ignored them all, swept down the grand staircase, and entered the dining room without a word.
Breakfast was the usual elegant affair—china plates and little silver spoons, pots of jam, honeycomb on a glass tray, eggs and thick slices of buttered bread.
My parents sat at their usual places, the king reading the morning's dispatches, the queen stirring her tea and offering me a smile. Seraphina was there too, legs crossed, already teasing a slice of pear from her plate.
"Good morning, darling," my mother said, gentle as a sunbeam.
"Good morning, Mama. Papa. Sera," I replied, as properly as possible. I slid into my seat and buttered my toast, eyes on my plate, letting the conversation pass over.
I refused to look at the empty chair Lyra usually took at the table's end, refused even to acknowledge her absence. If she joined us, I would not greet her.
But she did not come, at least not before I finished eating. That was fine. I finished my toast, sipped my tea, and left the table with a curt nod before my mother could ask if I'd slept well.
The courtyard outside was already bustling. My carriage was already here.
The footman opened the door. I climbed inside and sat primly, smoothing my skirt and ignoring the prickling sensation that something was missing.
The coachman waited, glancing over his shoulder. "Princess Isolde, shall we wait for Miss Lyra?"
I set my jaw, schooling my face into bored indifference. "No. We are leaving now. She can take the next carriage."
He hesitated. The other footman fidgeted by the steps, looking uncertain.
I stared straight ahead, cold as marble. "Go."
They obeyed, though reluctantly. The horses set off at a brisk trot, hooves clattering against the cobblestones. I sat with my hands folded.
I would have no shadow today. I would not look for Lyra in the crowd. For one morning, I would be alone.
The ride to the Academy was short—a quarter hour through the winding streets of the upper city.
I watched the city pass by: bakeries already open, students in crisp uniforms rushing to lessons, carters unloading goods at the market square. The city was waking, bright and noisy and indifferent to my plans.
When we arrived at the school gates, I did not wait for the footman to open the door. I jumped down myself, feeling the cool air against my face, and hurried up the broad front .
Behind me, the carriage rolled away, leaving a hush in its wake.
The Academy was vast and old, built of pale stone and thick with the scent of chalk, books, and polished wood.
Banners hung from the vaulted ceiling in the entrance hall, each bearing the sigil of a noble house.
Students streamed through the corridors—some in groups, some alone, all in the same uniform, but never quite the same.
I kept my head high and moved quickly, my plan simple: find my classroom, take my seat, and carry out the day as if Lyra was nothing more than a bad dream.
My classroom was on the second floor, flooded with morning sun from three tall windows.
I slipped inside and slid into my usual seat near the front, unpacked my books, and tried to calm the anxious flutter in my chest.
The room buzzed with low chatter. I ignored it all, focused on lining up my pens and straightening the corner of my book.
A few minutes passed, and the door creaked open. I didn't turn, but the room quieted, a ripple of curiosity moving from desk to desk. Footsteps crossed the wood floor—slow, measured, a little too confident to belong to one of the usual girls.
The teacher entered next: Mistress Valenne, tall and spare, her graying hair drawn back in a severe knot. She carried a slate and a stack of letters, her eyes as sharp as the tip of a hawk's beak.
"Settle down, everyone," she called, voice brisk. "We have a new student joining us today. Please welcome Lyra Skyblade."
A hush fell, every head swiveling to the back of the room. I held perfectly still, refusing to turn.
But I saw her reflected in the glass of the window: red and white hair wild around her face, her uniform almost identical to mine—almost.
Where the rest of us wore the standard skirt, Lyra had chosen the boys' option: tailored navy trousers, pressed neat and straight.
Her shirt was buttoned up to her collar, her blue vest slightly askew, as if she'd barely tolerated the fit.
She stood tall, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the room with a steady defiance that set a few of the more judgmental girls whispering already.
Mistress Valenne gestured to the front. "Lyra, introduce yourself to the class, please."
Lyra stepped forward, hands in her pockets.
She spoke, voice clear and low. "I'm Lyra Skyblade. I'm from the city, but I lived mostly on my own before coming to the palace. I like history and sword training. I don't like—" She paused, fangs just visible as she hesitated, "—being late."
A boy in the back snickered. Mistress Valenne arched an eyebrow. "Is that all?"
Lyra nodded. "That's all."
The teacher smiled, just a little. "You may take a seat, Lyra."
Lyra moved down the aisle, scanning the desks. I waited for her to try and sit near me—I was braced for it, in fact, determined to freeze her out, to let her feel the chill of my disapproval.
But she didn't even glance my way. Instead, she chose an empty seat beside a quiet girl named Mireille—a pale, bookish thing with dark braids who looked up, startled, as Lyra sat down.
For the first time all morning, I let myself look at Lyra full on. She was already unpacking her books, her face calm, almost bored.
Mireille whispered something, and Lyra gave a tiny, awkward smile, a flash of fang that made Mireille blink, but not flinch.
Mistress Valenne began the lesson—arithmetic, then geography, then a long, winding discourse on the succession of kings in the Southern Marches.
I tried to pay attention, but my mind kept drifting to the back row, where Lyra bent over her notebook, scribbling notes with intense focus.
She was never one to fidget or chatter, and I found myself glancing at her more than once, looking for some sign of discomfort, of loneliness. There was none.
At break, a few of the braver students approached her. One boy, Hugo, stuck out his hand with a lopsided grin. "Heard you're the girl who beat a knight in the yard last week."
Lyra just shrugged, a bare flicker of amusement on her face. "He slipped."
Hugo laughed, and even Mireille smiled. I turned away, burning with something I couldn't name.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of lessons and whispers, eyes flickering between Lyra and me, as if everyone expected a scene that never came.
When the bell rang for lunch, I left quickly, hurrying to the refectory with Seraphina—who teased me mercilessly all the way about how "civilized" I was being.
"Isolde, darling, you're going to sprain something if you keep scowling like that," she said, looping her arm through mine as we passed the statue gallery.
I shook her off. "I'm not scowling. I'm just… concentrating."
She grinned. "Yes, on ignoring someone with all the force of royal will. It's quite the performance."
I refused to reply. Even so, I couldn't help but glance back, just once, to see Lyra walking behind us with Mireille and a couple of boys, her head bowed, a small smile curving her lips. She never looked my way—not even once.
I tried to tell myself I was glad. That this was what I wanted. That today, at least, I had won.
So why did it feel so much like losing?