Late that evening, Serenil sat by his chamber window, listening to the sound of wolves howling beyond the palace walls. A storm was forming in the distance. He could feel it in his blood.
Then came a knock.
Soft. Almost hesitant.
He opened the door to see Lyra, drenched in rain, holding a bundle of herbs and bandages.
"You're injured," she said, stepping in without waiting for permission. "I saw it in the dream again."
He raised a brow. "I'm not hurt."
She lifted his sleeve, revealing a bruise on his forearm from the day's intense sparring.
"Tch." She gently applied salve. "You're terrible at taking care of yourself."
"I heal quickly."
"Doesn't mean you should suffer in silence."
Serenil studied her. There was more to her than she let on. She moved with the grace of someone who had held a dagger before, someone who had run from danger and into death.
He asked, "Why do you stay in the palace?"
She paused.
"I was taken from my village during a border raid. I was... valuable to someone. Then not. The king brought me here after some noble sold me to the black market."
He felt a flash of something—anger, maybe. It passed like a ghost.
"You don't fear me?"
Lyra looked up at him, her silver eyes serious.
"No. I pity the ones who should."
They sat in silence again. She finished dressing his wound and turned to go.
Before she left, Serenil asked, "Lyra… if I asked you to follow me, even into ruin… would you?"
She turned, her voice steady.
"I already decided. The night I saw you in the void."
As she disappeared down the hall, Serenil felt the storm outside break—and inside him, something began to stir. A feeling long buried.
He would need allies.
And Lyra… might become something far more important.