Lyra
I told myself I wasn't looking for anything. Just a distraction, a way to make the hours stop crawling across the walls like insects. But the moment I stepped into the estate's west library, I knew better.
It was too quiet.
Not silent—watched.
Rows of ancient tomes loomed like sentinels, heavy with magic and memory. The air smelled like aged parchment and something older—bitter, metallic, almost like old blood. Even the dust motes floated slower in here, as if time held its breath.
I ran a finger along the spines of the books, most of them bearing no titles. Some pulsed faintly when touched. Others hissed and recoiled.
The knowledge in this place didn't want to be read. It wanted to be earned.
I made my way to the far corner—where the light didn't reach, and where the books didn't behave. Something… tugged there. Not a sound. Not a whisper. But a presence. The way my skin bristled just before a storm.
There it was. A leather-bound journal wedged between two thick volumes of lineage law. No title. Just a single symbol burned into the cover: a spiral of chains circling an open eye. Familiar.
I'd seen it in my dreams. In the reflections of mirrors that didn't belong to me.
The book trembled beneath my hand, then gave in—click. It unlocked. No clasp. Just will.
Inside, the pages were worn, some stained with something brown and flaked—ink, hopefully. Most were diagrams, notes scrawled in a hurried hand, and phrases in dead languages. But some I understood:
Subject 17: Binding incomplete. Emotional trigger unstable.
Effect: Love-based anchors lead to accelerated death reaction in bonded partner.
Genetic immunity: Inherited only through motherline.
Suggested use: Long-term suppression of volatile bloodlines with prophecy markers.
My blood turned to ice.
I flipped further. A sketch of a sigil—elegant, brutal—like a crown carved into bone. I knew it. I had worn it. The curse burned behind my ribs like a second heartbeat.
And beneath the sigil, partially obscured by an ink stain, was a name.
Only one letter was clear.
M.
I knew that flourish. I'd seen it on formal letters growing up, on wax seals and invitations bearing House Michelson's crest.
No.
My hand trembled. I snapped the book shut.
The lamp beside me dimmed suddenly, flickering. Not out of oil—but fear. The estate felt it too.
Something stirred in the walls. Something that knew I knew.
---
I didn't run.
I walked—slowly, deliberately—because panic felt like surrender, and I had surrendered enough.
The journal was tucked beneath my arm, heavier than iron. Each step echoed louder than the last. The halls narrowed. The portraits lining the corridor seemed to follow me, their painted eyes sharpened by flickering light. Judging. Mocking.
Back in my chambers, I locked the door, drew the curtains, and set the book on the floor like it might explode.
I stared at it. My lungs hurt. My hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Subject 17.
They'd turned me into a test. An experiment. A containment strategy for something they feared in my blood.
Was that all I was? A curse carrier wrapped in lace and obedience?
And that letter—M—it wasn't just a flourish. It was a signature.
I knew it, down to the curve of the quill.
My father.
Not some distant Consul scientist. Not an ancient enemy of my house. Him.
The man who brushed my hair when I was a child. Who told me I'd make our family proud. Who offered me a smile—cold but constant—before sending me off to marry a stranger with secrets.
He had known.
He chose this.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, but the tears still came—furious, soundless. They scalded.
They weren't for the father I'd lost. They were for the girl I had been, still hoping he'd love her enough not to make her a weapon.
---
A soft knock broke the silence. Not the polite, detached rhythm of the servants. No—measured, deliberate.
I inhaled and opened the door.
Tristan stood there, in a shadow-dark tunic. Eyes unreadable. The scent of rain clung to him. Or maybe that was just the storm I brought into the room.
His gaze flicked down to the book on the floor.
"I felt something shift," he said quietly. "The estate woke up."
I didn't answer. Just stepped aside.
He walked in slowly, his expression unreadable but sharp—like a man who could see the shape of your wounds without ever asking where they bled.
He stopped near the book, then looked at me. "You found something."
"It found me."
Silence stretched, heavy and waiting.
Then I said it. "My curse… it wasn't fate. It wasn't even a punishment."
I met his gaze. "It was designed. Like a weapon."
He didn't flinch. "By whom?"
I bent, picked up the book, and flipped to the signature.
Turned it so he could see.
His jaw tightened.
He didn't say what he was thinking. But something in his eyes—anger or recognition, or maybe something worse—burned bright, then died.
"You're sure it's him?" he asked.
"Yes." My voice didn't shake. "I'd know that signature anywhere."
Tristan crossed his arms, shoulders stiff. "Then this alliance was built on more than a curse. It was built on containment. Control."
His voice was like steel cooling. Controlled. Dangerous.
"And now?" I asked. "What happens now that I know?"
He stepped forward. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his body and the cold weight of his thoughts.
"Now," he said, "you stop pretending you're the victim of your story."
He reached out—not to touch me, but to pick up the book—and then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.