Lyra
I couldn't sleep.
Rauterson's words looped in my mind like a curse of their own, each syllable clinging to the edge of my ribs. I had barely spoken to him after he dropped that whisper about the Consuls, but it burrowed deep.
The curse wasn't fate. It was designed.
That single truth shredded every story I had ever been told. It made me want to scream. Or run. Or destroy something.
Instead, I found myself wandering the halls, the mansion quiet except for the occasional rustle of night wind through the ivy-covered walls. I didn't think; I just moved, my feet dragging me somewhere old. Somewhere forgotten.
The estate's archives.
I had discovered them weeks ago, hidden behind a long corridor veiled with charm runes. But tonight, the barrier peeled open as if it sensed my desperation.
Dust greeted me like a ghost. I lit the corner lamps and scanned the room—shelves, old marriage contracts, bloodline registries, ceremonial robes. Scrolls sealed with the Consul insignia.
My hand trembled as I opened an old journal, leather cracked with age. The name at the top made my breath catch.
Aurelia Danira Michelson. My great-grandmother.
The entries were fragmented, ink faded with time:
"They promised it was just ceremony. A joining of names. But I loved him. I chose wrong. Now they punish my daughters."
"The blood binds and burns. They made it so. The spell weaves into womb and heart. I am sorry."
I sank to my knees, breath thin. So this was it. It had never been just a myth. The curse wasn't divine judgment—it was retribution.
The Consuls had orchestrated everything. They used my great-grandmother as a lesson, a warning. And now, they were using me too.
The ritual scroll beside the journal bore the Consul seal. Symbols of binding magic shimmered along its edge. This was the proof. I wanted to tear it apart, but my fingers wouldn't obey.
---
By the time morning light touched the estate, a summon arrived.
Tristan stood at the archway of my reading nook, hair slightly tousled, irritation pressed into every line of his face. "We're being called in. Get dressed."
"By who?"
"The Consul. Apparently, they want to check on the happy couple."
My laugh was hollow. "How thoughtful."
---
The Consul chamber was too bright.
Twelve thrones, twelve faces too smug to hide their power. My father sat at the center, his smile cold and unreadable.
They asked us questions—How was the adjustment? Did we find harmony? Were we "cultivating union" as per the premarital ritual?
Tristan played the game well. Always the golden son.
I played colder. It earned me raised brows.
---
Afterward, in the transport back to the estate, silence stretched like a wire between us.
Then he said, "You could've tried harder in there."
I turned to him slowly. "Tried harder to lie? Or to act like this doesn't feel like a gilded cage?"
His jaw tensed. "You think I enjoy any of this?"
"I don't know what you enjoy, Tristan. You barely speak unless it's an order."
"And you barely listen unless it's a fight."
I looked away. The transport fell quiet again.
---
That night, I left.
I waited until the estate slept, slipping through servant halls and climbing the outer wall. My dress snagged on stone, tearing slightly. I didn't care. I wanted air. I wanted to walk without eyes.
The city was quiet. I kept to shadows.
And then it hit.
Pain, sharp and searing, lanced through my chest. My knees buckled. The curse twisted in my ribs like it wanted to tear free. I gasped, trembling, tears blurring my sight.
"Lyra!"
His voice was distant thunder. Then hands caught me before I collapsed.
Tristan.
His arms were iron and warmth. He didn't speak. He just lifted me, pressing me to his chest, and carried me through the dark.
I faded in and out.
The next time I woke, I was on a bed far too soft for any guest room.
His bed.
The scent was him. Storms and steel.
I turned my head, heart thudding.
Tristan stood at the doorway, silent, watching me.
For once, he didn't look like a fortress. He looked like a man who had just realized something could be lost.
And I didn't know what to say.