The royal dinner had left Lyra with a quiet sense of satisfaction. The subtle shock on His Majesty's face and the flicker of unease in Valerius's eyes, these were small victories but victories, nonetheless. The family, so accustomed to her meek presence was beginning to sense a shift even if they couldn't name it and this was precisely what Elara had intended. Or Lyra, herself.
Their ignorance left space for her quiet reach.
The next morning, on a rare crisp autumn day, Lyra left her wing and the training grounds to inspect the palace's outer perimeter and study its weaknesses.
Marta, ever watchful, offered to accompany her. "Allow me to prepare some sandwiches first, my lady," she said. But Lyra, already moving toward the corridor, glanced back and replied softly, "Just meet me in the shade nearby."
Still puzzled by Lyra's quiet demeanor, Marta dipped her head.
"Understood, my lady. I won't be long."
Lyra walked with a deliberate pace, her young body surprisingly agile as she navigated the tidy paths of the palace grounds. The air was cool and fresh, a welcome change from the stale, gleaming interior. Though some sections of the outer walls were well maintained perhaps out of protocol rather than regard for her, she still scrutinized every corner with her sharp and unrelenting gaze. She took note of blind spots in the knights' patrols and quietly marked areas that remained vulnerable to intrusion.
Her mind, ever analytical was already crafting strategies and assessing risks.
As Lyra rounded a thick cluster of rose bushes, Marta spotted her, not in the shade as told but facing Isolde Vaelhart, Valerius's fiancée, dressed in crimson silk with two maids at her side. Isolde sneered, "They really let anyone wander these grounds now, don't they?" Before Lyra could answer, Marta stepped in. "Forgive me, Lady Vaelhart, but such words are not fitting for someone of her standing."
Isolde blinked, visibly stunned by the interruption of someone lowly than her. For a moment, she said nothing, only stared at Marta with thinly veiled hostility. Then, her lips curled into a cold smile.
"How fitting," she drawled with voice like silk over ice. "A servant bold enough to interrupt a noble conversation… one who clearly mirrors her mistress. I suppose it's only natural when one's superior is of such questionable origin."
Her gaze then flicked back to Lyra, lingering with a poisonous amusement. "Truly, the palace has become far too lenient."
Marta's hands clenched at her sides because the sting of Isolde's words sharper than any slap. She opened her mouth, only to find no words and leaving only a tightness in her throat and a burning in her chest. For all her resolve, she was still a maid, and the weight of noble hierarchy pressed down like a blade at her back.
Lyra then spoke with an unsettling calm, her voice smooth and composed as if Isolde's barbed words had never touched her. There was no flicker of hurt and no spark of indignation, only a quiet, unshaken poise that made the air feel heavier.
Perhaps the insults could have wounded her, once.
If she were still Lyra but she wasn't.
She was Elara now, a woman of twenty-eight who had tasted betrayal, endured silence and survived a world far crueler than Isolde could yet comprehend. Compared to that, the petty empty words of mockery coming from a sheltered girl barely out of adolescence was nothing more than a passing breeze for her.
So, she met Isolde's sneer with a soft smile and said, "Is that all, my lady?"
Lyra remained still, her face a blank canvas. The old Lyra would have flushed, stammered an apology and perhaps even tried to retreat and beg. And the old Elara would have felt the familiar sting of the insult but this Lyra felt nothing but a detached observation. For Elara herself, Isolde's words were quite predictable, a tiresome echo of a past she had left behind.
"My lady," Lyra replied, her voice flat and devoid of any emotion. Just a polite formality that carried no warmth. She didn't bow deeply like she cluelessly did in the past as if Isolde was the one higher than her status. She just merely shows a slight inclination of her head.
Isolde's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. The lack of reaction, the cold and formal address, was not what she expected. She was accustomed to Lyra's timid deference with her desperate attempts to avoid conflict. "Don't 'My lady' me, you little bastard," Isolde snapped, her voice losing its polished edge. "You are a stain on this family's name, a constant reminder of His Majesty's weakness. And soon, you will be a stain on my name, on my husband's name." She took a step closer, her gaze raking over Lyra's simple, worn dress. "Do you truly think you belong in here? In this palace? In this family? You are nothing more than a servant's child, dressed in rags, clinging to a title that you don't deserve."
The maids hid their giggles, encouraged by their mistress's mockery, while Marta could no longer stay quiet.
"M-My lady, that's enough! Please refrain from saying such things. You are being—"
Before she could finish, Isolde's hand struck her cheek where the sharp sound echoed.
And in that moment, the cold, razor-edged stillness in Lyra's eyes said more than words ever could.
Isolde met Lyra's unblinking gaze. There was no hint of fear or outrage, only a disquieting composure as if her fury had dissipated into something colder. "That's enough," Lyra said, her tone quiet and detached. "Marta, what now? Shall we return the courtesy and choose one of her maids for you to strike as well?"
Isolde recoiled as if struck. The sheer audacity and the cold, unflinching defiance from the usually meek Lyra left her stunned. Her face flushed, not with righteous fury but with genuine bewilderment.
"How dare you!" she sputtered, momentarily at a loss for words while giving a look at her servants for a second.
Behind Lyra, Marta stood frozen in disbelief. Her Lady's calm, biting retort had shaken her more than the slap ever could yet the sting of helplessness gnawed at her because she knew that she had failed to protect her but rather than retreat, Marta swallowed hard and stepped forward.
Her movement was slow but steady as she approached Isolde's maids, who now glanced at one another, fear flickering in their eyes and thought whether they should fight back or not crept into their minds. Then the smirk that once curled on their lips now faltered. None of them dared meet Marta's gaze.
As they are busy assessing the situation they are in, the air grew heavy not with sound but with the weight of a long-overdue reckoning.
Lyra merely offered another slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her head after Marta was done for her business to other maids. "Then, if you will excuse me, my lady. I have matters to attend to." Without waiting for a response, she turned and continued her walk, leaving Isolde and her gaping maids behind.
Isolde stood frozen, watching Lyra's retreating back. The little princess, the half-breed she had always dismissed had just spoken to her with the cold authority of a queen. The encounter left a bitter taste in Isolde's mouth but also a prickle of unease that what if she'll knew her true place and wield her power and status. If that will happen, what will happen to her who truly have noble veins in her blood unlike Lyra who is a half breed.
Then she realized. This was not the Lyra she knew, this was something new and something unsettling.
As Lyra continued along the winding, well-maintained path, her mind had already returned to assessing the palace's vulnerabilities particularly its southern wall. But a shadow fell across her path, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked up.
Standing before her, arms loosely crossed, was Caius. He had clearly been observing the exchange from a distance, half-concealed by the gnarled branches of an ancient oak. His usually impassive gaze now held the faintest glint of something unreadable. Amusement perhaps but his features remained otherwise composed.
Behind Lyra, Marta stayed stiffened. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes met the unmistakable figure of the prince. Hastily, she bowed her head low, almost trembling. She had spoken out stepped in, even before realizing they had an audience of such stature. Now, the weight of her boldness settled in her chest like a stone.
Caius said nothing at first but his gaze lingered on Marta for a moment longer than expected, then shifted to Lyra.
He had arrived just in time to hear the exchange between Isolde and Lyra where each word still fresh in his memory especially the way Lyra had delivered hers with unnerving poise. It wasn't that she had raised her voice or declared war, it was how calmly and how precisely she had put Isolde in her place.
He tilted his head, studying her as though trying to reconcile the girl he thought he knew with the woman who now stood before him.
"A rather spirited conversation, my lady," Caius remarked with his voice smooth, almost a purr. There was no mockery in his tone, only a keen, analytical curiosity. "Lady Vaelhart can be... rather vocal in her opinions."
Lyra halted, her expression unreadable. She had anticipated his perceptiveness but to realize he had witnessed the entire exchange was a calculated risk she had been prepared to take. "Lady Vaelhart is free to express her thoughts, Your Highness," she said evenly. "She merely voiced her opinion, as you said."
Caius's lips twitched, an almost imperceptible smile flickering in his eyes laced with both amusement and surprise. He then unfolded his arms and stepped forward, measured and slow. "I must say, this is rather unexpected." The Lyra he remembers would've crumbled into tears or, at the very least, whispered some stammered apology just for daring to exist in Isolde's shadow.
Yet Lyra gave nothing away.
Caius studied her for a long moment, clearly surprised then, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "You speak your mind with admirable clarity, Lyra. A rare trait here." His gaze briefly flicked to Marta, who stood a respectful distance behind, her head bowed yet visibly tense from the earlier exchange. "And you," he added, his tone neutral, "quite a talker, yes? It's not a common thing." He stepped aside with a slight nod. "Do continue your... contemplation. I find myself with much to reflect on as well."
Lyra inclined her head. "As you wish, Your Highness." She walked past him, leaving him among the shadows of the garden, expression unreadable.
He watched her go, a sliver of uncertainty coiling deep in his gut but something in her voice had stuck with him. Not defeat and not rage.
Liberation.
And that, somehow, disturbed him most of all.