The estate was too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that came with peace—but the kind that watched you. That settled over your shoulders like a velvet weight and whispered that every move was noted.
Lyra wandered the east corridor after breakfast, trailing her fingers along the ridged wallpaper. The hall curved in a way that didn't make architectural sense, the ceiling narrowing with every turn. No staff. No footsteps. Just the faint tick of a clock she couldn't see.
She passed a door that had been locked yesterday. Today, it stood open.
She hesitated, glancing back the way she came.
No footsteps. No Tristan.
She stepped inside.
It was a library, or something like one. Shelves towered from floor to ceiling, filled with old tomes marked in symbols she didn't recognize—some etched with gold foil, others with runes burned directly into leather. No dust. No cobwebs. No warmth.
One book lay open on a marble pedestal.
She approached, warily.
The pages were covered in shifting script, shimmering ink that rearranged itself when she tried to read it. Her head ached just looking at it. A whisper curled through the air—no louder than breath. She couldn't tell if it came from the book or the walls.
"Lyra."
She spun around.
No one.
But her heartbeat surged like a warning.
A sudden sharpness bloomed in her chest. Not quite pain, not quite pressure—but something in between. Her fingers trembled.
She backed out of the room, forcing herself to walk instead of run.
By the time she reached the main hall again, the book was already fading from her memory. But not the feeling.
Eyes. Watching.
Judging.
Waiting.
---
Lyra woke to the soft rustle of silk curtains being drawn aside. The muted glow of early morning filtered through the thick, perfectly pressed fabric—an unnatural calm that clung to everything in the estate, even the air. She sat up in the bed, blinking against the faint dizziness still lingering from the night before.
Her gaze swept across the immaculate room, and a sense of déjà vu curled in her chest. Everything was exactly as it had been when she'd fallen asleep. The same velvet drapes, the same muted gold accents, the same sterile silence that seemed to press in from all sides.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her bare feet touched the cold stone floor. A tray was waiting for her, positioned perfectly on the polished wooden table beside the bed, as if it had been placed there moments ago. Steam rose from a porcelain teapot, and the scent of buttered bread filled the air, but it was too perfect—too curated to be real.
Her fingers hovered over the silver handle of the teapot. She hesitated, knowing the moment she touched it, she would be watched. There were always eyes. The silence in the room felt thick, suffocating. She could almost hear them now—servants, guards, the house itself—waiting for her to break it, to do something, anything that would bring them rushing in.
Every hallway echoed her name, even when no one spoke it.
She had to leave. She needed space. But the walls, the floors, the very windows seemed to conspire against her.
Lyra stood, pushing the breakfast tray aside with an ungraceful motion. Her fingers brushed against the silverware, and the clink of metal seemed loud in the silence. The sound reverberated through the room, like a reminder that she was never truly alone. The weight of it crushed down on her chest, and she forced herself to take a deep breath.
She moved toward the window, a fragile sense of freedom stirring in her chest, but as her fingers brushed the edge of the curtain, the faintest rustle echoed from beyond the room. Someone was watching—perhaps the same servant who had placed the breakfast tray. The movement was subtle, but Lyra didn't miss it. She could feel their eyes, even through the thick fabric of the curtains.
She stepped back from the window, frustration bubbling beneath her calm surface. She turned, pacing back toward the door, but as she crossed the room, her gaze caught the reflection of herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the opposite wall. For a moment, she almost didn't recognize the girl staring back at her.
Her dark eyes were shadowed, and her face was pale, drained of color. The girl in the mirror looked like someone already caught in a trap—a bird with clipped wings, fluttering for the door but finding no escape.
The soft sound of footsteps reached her ears, and she stiffened. They weren't her own.
The door creaked open before she could react.
A servant entered the room, glancing at her with a polite bow. "Lady Michelson, breakfast is prepared, should you require anything else."
Lyra's mouth tightened. She didn't say anything as she nodded, though the gesture felt hollow, meaningless.
As the servant left, she stared at the door, her mind turning. There was no room for escape here. Not with eyes on her at every moment.
Her fingers twitched, and for the briefest moment, she considered smashing the teapot to watch it shatter into a thousand pieces. But she quickly suppressed the thought, knowing it would only bring more scrutiny.
Her heart was a little faster now, and the suffocating silence of the estate made her feel like an animal in a cage. And the cage was closing in.
--
The east and west wings of the estate weren't marked, but Lyra learned to read the air. The eastern halls carried a polished kind of stillness—like everything had been dusted moments before she passed. The west, however, breathed.
She didn't mean to go there.
After hours of pacing wide halls and wandering curated gardens with trimmed hedges and artificial silence, her feet drifted toward a corridor she hadn't noticed before. No servants lingered here. No sunlight reached these halls. The lamps along the walls flickered low with dull orange flame—as if struggling to stay lit.
The wallpaper was peeling in places, edges browned with age. And the walls—unlike the rest of the estate—bore no portraits, no polished decor. Just long, silent stretches of stone. Cold, blank stone.
The air grew colder the farther she walked, and yet… she wasn't afraid. Not exactly.
A door appeared at the end of the corridor, its wood darker than any other in the house. Carved into its surface was a symbol: a phoenix, wings stretched wide, flames curling down its body—but the flames were not triumphant. They seemed to consume the creature.
She didn't touch it—not yet. But the moment her shadow fell across it, something whispered in the back of her skull.
Her name.
Lyra.
She flinched, stumbling back a step, heart pounding in her chest. Her breath came shallow, and she shook her head hard, as if trying to shake water from her ears.
Then she touched the door.
A flash of ice seared behind her eyes. Her knees buckled.
Pain. Real pain.
Not the kind her curse gave to others. This was hers.
Her fingertips burned against the wood. Her body went rigid, spine locking as something inside her twisted.
She remembers, a voice whispered—not from the room, but from within her. Or the door. Or her past. She couldn't tell anymore.
The world narrowed to black.
She saw fire. Blood. A name—crossed out in ink.
And then it was gone.
A noise—soft, distant—dragged her back. She jerked away from the door, breath ragged, vision swimming.
At the other end of the hall, a servant was approaching. Lyra straightened, smoothing her hair, her expression shuttered as if nothing had happened.
"Sorry," she said casually, voice thin. "I think I got lost."
The servant didn't question her. Didn't even glance at the door. Just offered a silent nod and turned to lead her back.
But as Lyra walked away, she glanced over her shoulder one last time.
The phoenix door stood still, unmoved. Silent.
But it was watching.
She reached for her journal, fingers moving on instinct. She didn't know what to write. Her pen hovered over the paper, then began to draw.
A circle. Wings. Fire curling inward, not outward. A phoenix—or something that once looked like one.
She stared at the sketch, blinking hard.
But the longer she stared, the less sense it made. The lines warped. Her memory buckled.
What had the door said?
Had it said anything at all?
She couldn't remember. She tried. She tried. But every time she reached for the thought, it dissolved like breath on glass.
The more she chased it, the further it slipped.
Her eyes drifted shut, fingers tightening around the pen.
She remembered the feeling instead. The terrible weight of something ancient. Watching her. Whispering. Judging.
By the time she reached the main hall again that evening, the door's voice was already slipping from her memory—like smoke dissolving into sun.
But the feeling remained.
The eyes.
Watching.
Judging.
Waiting.