The manor changed after that day.
Not in thunder, but in whispers.
Servants spoke in hushed voices.
The girl—the annex child—had been seen in the Lord's arms.
Smiling. Crying. Held.
And he had smiled back.
No order had been given. No official announcement.
But something had shifted.
Lord Auren Caelthorn began to notice her.
Not often. Not loudly. But he would pause when he passed the annex courtyard.
He would watch from the shadows of the hallways as she played in the dust with sticks and stones.
And sometimes, when no one was looking, he would leave something small near her door.
A wooden carving.
A book with pictures.
A ribbon, once her mother's.
Lyra didn't know who left them. But each gift she clutched with reverence, whispering thank-yous into the air.
Yet inside the grand halls, resentment stirred.
The elders of House Velmira were especially vocal.
"She is cursed," they muttered. "The fruit of death. She brings Elira's ghost into his eyes."
"She is soft," said others. "And softness is weakness."
But Auren said nothing.
And that frightened them more than rage.
Inside himself, Auren warred with silence.
He found himself drawn to her.
How she spoke to birds as if they were kin.
How laughter slipped from her like music no one had taught her.
How she cried freely, without shame.
She was so alive.
And that made her dangerous.
Because he had forgotten what it meant to be alive.
When she looked at him now, her eyes glowed with hope—raw and unguarded. The same way Elira once looked at him across firelit halls.
He wanted to reach for her.
But his grief had grown roots, and each step toward her felt like tearing through stone.
He tried.
Once, he called her name.
"Lyra."
She turned, eyes wide, stunned that he had spoken it.
Then she ran—straight into his legs—and hugged him with all her strength.
Auren froze again.
She was so small.
And then she said, muffled against his tunic,
"I missed you today."
He didn't know what to say.
So he said nothing.
Just laid a hand gently on her head.
Others noticed.
Lady Siora, his sister by blood, disapproved.
"She is dangerous," she told him, one evening over tea and cold silence.
"You forget what her birth cost us."
"I forget nothing," Auren said softly.
"She will break you," Siora warned. "Just as her mother did."
To that, he gave no answer.
But his grip on the teacup tightened.
Meanwhile, Lyra's days grew warmer.
Gorran gave her extra sweets now, openly. Mira braided her hair with ribbons. Some servants smiled when they passed her, uncertain but softening.
Still, most halls were closed to her.
She learned which corridors made people look away.
Which rooms held whispers behind doors.
But she didn't mind.
Because sometimes, when the sun was just right, she would find her father waiting in the garden.
He never said much.
But he was there.
And for Lyra, that was enough.
One night, a storm rolled in. The kind that made the manor groan and the annex windows rattle.
Lyra awoke crying—fear crawling up her spine like ice.
Mira wasn't in her room.
In the dark, barefoot and trembling, she ran. Through the cold stone halls. Through shadows and silence.
She didn't know where to go.
Except... to him.
She pushed open the great doors of the main chamber.
And there he was.
Lord Auren sat alone by the fire, reading. His cloak draped over one shoulder, eyes red from sleeplessness.
He looked up—
And there she stood, rain-slicked and trembling, eyes wide with fear and longing.
She didn't speak.
She just looked at him.
And for the first time, he opened his arms.
She ran to him without hesitation.
No words were said. But she curled in his lap, pressing her face to his chest, and felt safe.
He wrapped the cloak around her.
The fire crackled.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Inside, for the first time in years, the Lord of Caelthorn closed his eyes.
And slept.