The ink had dried long ago.
On the table before Lyra lay a stack of parchment—creased, stained, some edges burnt from proximity to candlelight. Each letter bore the same recipient.
"To Mother."
But none had ever been sent.
Lyra sat alone in the corner of her new chamber—grander than anything in the village, yet colder than a winter dawn. Marble walls, golden sconces, velvet curtains... none of it offered the warmth of a kitchen hearth or the scent of fresh bread.
She picked up one letter and began to read.
---
> To Mother,
I don't know where to start. Everything feels like a story I was never supposed to be in. There's a palace. Guards. Nobles. And they say I may be divine.
I remember kneading dough beside you. I remember how you used to hum when the sun rose. I don't remember being anything else.
But... pieces are returning. Like dreams I forgot I had.
I wish I could ask you: if I was someone else before, does that make the person you raised a lie?
I miss home.
—Lyra
---
A knock broke her reverie.
It was Captain Rael.
"Your presence is requested in the Hall of Records, Lady Lyra. A courier arrived with documents from the village."
Her heart leapt.
"Did my mother send something?"
Rael hesitated. "I... believe you should read them yourself."
---
The Hall of Records was an ancient archive buried beneath the palace, carved into stone and lit by orbs of hovering light. It smelled of ink, parchment, and secrets.
A scribe handed her a bundle tied in twine.
There were three letters.
Only one was addressed to her.
The others were marked with seals—one broken, one unopened.
She opened the letter with trembling hands.
---
> My dearest Lyra,
The day you left, the air in the bakery turned hollow. Your absence hangs in every shelf and kneaded loaf.
The guards who took you gave no answers.
But I've seen things in dreams—golden halls, voices in clouds, fire in your eyes.
You are not just mine. But I will always call you daughter.
Return when you can.
Or let the skies carry this letter to your heart.
—Mother
---
Tears welled in Lyra's eyes. Her hands trembled as she held the parchment to her chest.
The world had tried to redefine her.
But in these lines, she found the anchor she needed.
---
Later that night, she returned to her chambers and lit a candle. She unrolled the broken-sealed letter.
It was from a spy, sent from the outskirts of the kingdom.
Its contents were grim.
> "Unrest grows in the western provinces. Noble houses whisper rebellion. Some claim to have visions of a winged woman in flame—some worship her, others fear she brings ruin."
Another page showed a crude sketch.
It looked like her.
---
The final letter, still sealed, bore the sigil of the Royal Intelligence Council.
She hesitated, then cracked the wax.
Its message was short:
> "Subject Lyra: Potential celestial anomaly confirmed. Recommend isolation, surveillance, and containment. Signed — Lord Halden."
---
Lyra stared at the words.
"Containment."
Not protection. Not understanding.
They saw her not as a person, but as a threat.
---
The next morning, she brought all three letters to Queen Yseult.
The queen read them slowly, her expression unreadable.
"I suspected Halden's hands moved deeper than the council," she said.
Lyra pointed to the spy's letter. "They're using my image to stir chaos."
Yseult nodded. "Some want to weaponize you. Others to erase you."
"And you?" Lyra asked.
The queen's eyes softened, just slightly. "I want to see who you choose to become."
---
That evening, during a small closed meeting, Lyra confronted Lord Halden.
She placed the letter before him.
"Do you deny this?"
Halden looked at her calmly. "No. I endorse it."
"You planned to lock me away?"
"I planned to preserve the kingdom," he replied. "If you are divine, then you are a risk. If you are mortal, you are still dangerous."
"I saved the King's life."
"And I don't doubt your power. I doubt your control."
Lyra stepped closer, eyes burning. "Then doubt this: I will not be caged."
---
Later, as the moon rose over the towers, Lyra stood at the edge of the palace gardens, wind lifting her hair.
She clutched the letter from her mother again.
She didn't cry this time.
She remembered.
The warmth of a baker's hands.
The strength of a daughter.
The echo of forgotten stars.
And the quiet, relentless heart of a goddess who once defied her own kind.
---
Somewhere deep in the palace, hidden eyes watched her.
And far across the mountains, rebels whispered her name like a prophecy.
But for now, she remained still—neither running, nor ruling.
Only breathing.
And choosing.