The sound of the doors opening was almost nothing—a discreet hydraulic hush, like silk pulled through fingers.
But he heard it.
Edgar turned his head, slow and deliberate, as Lyra D'Argent stepped across the threshold.
And for a moment, time forgot how to move.
She didn't hesitate, didn't flinch. She walked into the boardroom like she belonged there—confident, composed, back straight, eyes forward. She wore a tailored navy dress and minimalist heels that barely made a sound. Her dark hair was twisted into a sleek knot at the base of her neck, a few strands escaping near her temple in soft defiance. No jewelry, no perfume he could detect.
But her presence— Gods. It was her.
He saw her, not here—not in glass and stone—but in firelight. In velvet. In screams.
And yet the woman before him wasn't haunted. She wasn't apologizing. She wasn't even aware of what she was.
She was reborn, utterly unaware she had ever burned him alive.
Her gaze found his. And held.
For a half-second, her expression shifted. A flicker—curiosity? Discomfort? Recognition?
No. She didn't know him. But her soul did.
She smiled. Professional. Cordial. Unaffected.
"Mr. Thornevale," she said, offering a hand. "Lyra D'Argent. Thank you for the opportunity."
Her voice was lower than he remembered. More refined. But something in its cadence—
The exact same voice that once whispered in his ear You're not alone, while a kingdom tried to tear them apart.
He stared at her hand. Didn't take it.
Lyra blinked, just once. The smile on her lips held, but it shifted ever so slightly—controlled neutrality. The mask of someone who'd been trained to keep composure when someone forgot their manners.
Silence stretched between them like piano wire.
Behind her, Arielle entered quietly, offering no rescue.
Edgar finally spoke, his voice low, unreadable.
"You're early."
"I prefer to be," she replied easily. "Time's the only thing I hate wasting more than potential."
He didn't react. Not outwardly.
Inside, his chest curled tighter.
Same conviction. Same defiance. Elira had once said something nearly identical when she showed up at a war council without being summoned—and refused to apologize for it.
"I hope I haven't overstepped," Lyra added.
He blinked once. "We'll see."
She arched a single brow.
"Welcome aboard," Arielle said dryly, cutting through the tension as she crossed to her seat.
Lyra moved to the empty chair near the mid-right side of the table, placing a leather notebook and tablet in front of her with care. Calm, efficient.
Unaware.
Edgar sat last, at the head.
He said nothing as the other executives filtered in, all nodding to the new arrival with passing glances. The meeting began as scheduled.
But he didn't hear the first report.
He didn't glance at the screen.
He watched her.
Every breath. Every blink.
Not because he wanted to.
But because somewhere, deep beneath the tailored suit and perfect posture, his body remembered burning.
And it remembered her standing just out of reach.