The night after the Circle trial hung heavy, thick as unburned smoke.
Lyra could not sleep. She sat by the chamber window, knees drawn to her chest, staring into the dark sprawl of the city below. Fires burned in the streets — not riots, not yet, but watch-fires, set by patrols to ward off unrest. Every flame looked to her like an eye, staring, unblinking, waiting to see if she faltered.
Kael slept on the bed behind her, or at least pretended to. His breathing was steady, but too steady, as if forced. Lyra knew him well enough to recognize when he guarded his own unrest.
Her thoughts churned. The fire's whisper of Vaelora's name had burrowed inside her, and though she hadn't spoken it aloud, she feared it had marked her. The nobles didn't need proof. They only needed suspicion. And suspicion was poison enough.
A quiet knock stirred the silence. Three sharp taps, muffled. Thorne.
