I had never known such happiness. For all the tales of queens and crowns, of prophecies and sword-swinging destinies, I could not remember a single moment in my fifteen years when joy had burned as clean and bright in my chest as it did now.
Not on birthdays, not even at my first successful summoning of the White Flame. Nothing compared to the giddy, almost childlike delight I felt when Sir Aldric, Captain of the Capital Knights, pronounced that he had come for Lyra.
He wanted to take her away. To the capital.
The air in the dining hall had gone still, as if the world itself paused to listen. The king had looked thunderstruck, his knife hanging forgotten above the plate, his mouth working silently.
The queen's composure, always formidable, had flickered—just for a heartbeat. Around the table, a ripple of shocked whispers.
Only Lyra, at the center of it all, remained still. Even then, she seemed carved from determination, not fear.
Sir Aldric had explained, his words crisp, rehearsed for kings and courts.
"She has rare potential. We have observed her skill, her discipline, her magical ability. It would be a waste to leave her untested. The capital needs new blood—someone with her talent. My order will see to her training."
Lyra's face—so often unreadable, so infuriatingly calm—did not betray a flicker of surprise. Instead, she met his gaze, chin high, jaw set. "I would be honored, Sir. Of course."
And that, miraculously, was that. The king attempted a feeble protest—something about her responsibilities here, her youth, her role in our household—but it was clear Sir Aldric's mind, and Lyra's, was set.
The knights of the capital did not make requests; they issued verdicts.
When Sir Aldric added, almost as an afterthought, "We leave tomorrow at dawn," I nearly leapt from my seat in joy.
Tomorrow! I hardly dared believe it. For so long, I had dreamed of escape—of running away, or of Lyra vanishing as abruptly as she had arrived, of being free from her constant presence.
Now, it was happening. Not through any scheme of mine, not through all my careful plotting, but by a twist of fate and the timely intervention of the king's own best knight.
I spent the rest of dinner half in a daze, my food untouched. Lyra barely ate at all; she responded with polite indifference to the king's attempts at conversation.
It was as if she were already gone, her mind flying ahead to the training grounds and glittering halls of the capital, to a world where my existence was nothing more than a fading annoyance.
She left before dessert, a silent figure slipping away as if she could simply melt into the shadows, unremarked and unmissed.
I, however, could not stop grinning. When the palace servants brought out a tray of little cakes—flaky, golden, and sweet with preserves I savored every bite.
Each was a tiny celebration. Each was a victory.
But before the meal could end, the queen's hand landed gently on mine, stilling my fork.
"Isolde," she said in her quiet, queenly way. "Would you be so good as to bring Lyra some dessert? She left rather quickly. I suspect she could use a little kindness this evening."
I nearly laughed. Kindness? It was the most delicious irony of all.
"Of course, Mother," I replied, demure as a nun, and selected a generous slice of almond tart, a cluster of sugared berries, and two cream puffs—more than enough to send anyone into a happy sugar haze.
As I made my way through the palace corridors, I allowed myself the freedom to imagine my new life.
The coming days, weeks, months—how gloriously empty they would be, swept clean of Lyra's ever-watchful eyes, her sharp tongue, her steady hands always waiting to thwart me. I could come and go as I pleased.
I practically floated up the stairwell, the plate balanced expertly on my palm, my mind cataloging all the small rebellions I would finally attempt. Perhaps I would even let my hair down at dinner—Mother would faint.
When I reached Lyra's room, I did not bother to knock. She would be grateful, I told myself, for the interruption. Or, at least, she would have to endure it one last time.
I flung the door open, triumphant, my smile ready.
What I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Lyra stood at the edge of her narrow bed, her back to me, half-turned as if caught between dressing and undressing.
She was barefoot, hair damp and wild from her shower. She wore only a pair of low-slung black trousers; her shirt, half on, was tangled around her arms and clinging to her back, exposing the sleek, strong lines of muscle and the faint, silvery scars that mapped her skin.
Her torso—sculpted, sun-kissed, undeniably beautiful—gleamed in the lamplight. She was more woman than girl now, every inch of her a testament to years of hardship and impossible discipline.
I froze, mid-step, the dessert plate wobbling precariously in my grip. Lyra whipped around, eyes wide, cheeks flushing as she realized her state of undress.
"Isolde!" she barked, voice rough with embarrassment and something else—alarm, maybe, or anger. "What are you doing?"
I tried, I really did, to keep my composure. I failed utterly. The sight of her half naked, raw and powerful, so different from the scrappy urchin she had once been rattled me more than any duel or argument ever had.
"I—um—Mother sent me to bring you dessert," I managed, words catching awkwardly as I stared, unable to look away. I was mortified by the heat crawling up my own neck. "You—you left before the cakes."
She stared at me, her own face blooming red. "Could you at least knock?" she snapped, tugging the shirt down, but only succeeding in trapping one arm. In her haste, she lost her balance, tripping backward onto the bed.
The plate slipped from my hands. I lunged to save it never one to waste good pastry and in my panic, I tripped over a discarded boot.
Suddenly, I was falling straight toward Lyra.
There was a tangle of limbs, a jolt of surprise, and a soft gasp. My face landed against the warm, bare skin of her chest, her hands instinctively catching my waist to steady me.
For a moment, we stared at each other, breath mingling, the room spinning in the sudden, charged silence.
Her eyes were wild, her body tense, every muscle beneath my palms hard as marble. The sweet scent of soap and skin nothing like roses or perfume, just clean and alive filled my head.
The plate of dessert teetered between us, wedged awkwardly against Lyra's ribs, a doomed cream puff squashed in the crossfire.
I tried to scramble back, but she had already moved fast as always, a hand curling around my wrist as she rolled, pinning me to the mattress.
I found myself flat on my back, Lyra braced above me, knees on either side of my hips, one arm holding me down.
For a breathless, impossible instant, the world shrank to the press of her body, the electric brush of her hair against my cheek, the bright heat in her eyes. We were so close I could see the gold flecks in her irises, the faint quiver of her lips.
"Isolde," she whispered, voice a low warning.
My heart hammered against my ribs, all my triumph vanishing, replaced by something raw and reckless.
I felt the weight of her, the thrill of her strength, and a kind of terror that had nothing to do with fear.
"You—you're heavy," I managed, trying for bravado, but my voice was barely more than a whisper.
She smirked, a slow, dangerous smile. "You shouldn't sneak up on people. Especially not me."
I struggled—half-heartedly, if I was honest—but she did not let me go. Not yet. Her hair fell in a damp curtain around us, hiding us from the world, just the two of us in this narrow, secret universe.
The dessert plate slid to the floor with a soft thud, scattering sugared berries and crumbs over the rugs.
We did not move. We did not speak.
Something was happening—something old and new, a current of energy so bright and strange I barely dared to breathe.
The years of hatred, of rivalry, of secret longing and sharper loneliness, all tangled together in the darkening room.
Finally, Lyra released me, sitting back with a heavy exhale, her cheeks still flushed. She grabbed her shirt, tugged it over her head in a single motion, and glared at me as if daring me to laugh.
"I don't need dessert," she said gruffly. "But thanks."
I pushed myself upright, my own skin prickling, unsure if I was furious or flustered or both. "You could at least say goodbye, you know. Before you run off to your perfect new life in the capital."
Lyra paused, something strange flickering in her eyes. For once, she did not answer with a quip or a taunt.
"I'll see you at breakfast," she said quietly. "One last time."
And just like that, the moment was over.
I fled the room, the taste of almonds and regret lingering on my tongue, my heart beating much too fast.
Tomorrow, she would be gone.