The first cold wind of late autumn swept through the sect that morning, carrying the dry rustle of fallen gingko leaves across the stone paths. Lyra felt the bite of it against her cheeks as she crossed the eastern courtyard, balancing a stack of freshly laundered disciple robes in her arms. The fabric was still warm from the drying stones, and steam curled faintly upward, vanishing into the pale light.
She kept her head down, not out of shyness but because the more invisible she became, the longer she could stay out of trouble. Trouble, however, had a way of finding her.
A voice, sharp and too loud, cut across the chatter of the courtyard.
"Little shadow-rat, where are you scurrying off to?"
She didn't need to look up to know it was Maelin. The senior disciple had the kind of voice that could slice through silk, thin, cutting, and impossible to ignore. Lyra kept walking, hoping the woman would lose interest.
She didn't.
Bootsteps closed in. A hand caught the edge of the top robe in Lyra's stack and tugged it free, letting it drop into the dirt. The pale blue silk landed on a damp patch, the hem soaking up mud.
"Oops," Maelin said, her mouth curling into a smile that wasn't meant to reach her eyes. "Looks like you'll have to wash it again. Unless, of course, you're too busy lurking in shadows."
A few of the gathered disciples snickered. Lyra's fingers tightened around the remaining robes.
"I'm sure the laundry hall will forgive me," she said evenly, bending to pick it up. Her voice was careful, as if each word was a thread she didn't want to pull too tight.
But Maelin wasn't here for an apology. She stepped closer, blocking Lyra's path back. "You've been awfully quiet lately. Makes one wonder what you're hiding."
It was the way she said hiding that made Lyra's skin prickle.
She had been careful. Too careful, perhaps, because careful people were noticed just as much as reckless ones. The Shadow Sovereign's power coiled at the edges of her awareness like a tide pressing against the shore.
Maelin's eyes flicked to the other disciples, then back to Lyra. "Tell us, little servant. What did you do to catch the prince's attention?"
The murmurs grew louder.
This was not about the robe. It was about making her a spectacle. Lyra could feel the heat creeping up her neck, the subtle shift in her breathing that always came before the shadows stirred.
"Nothing," Lyra said, but the word fell flat.
"Nothing?" Maelin tilted her head. "That's strange. You've been seen near him more than once. And yesterday… wasn't there a private conversation in the courtyard?"
Lyra forced herself not to glance toward the far side of the yard, where she could feel Kieran's presence before she saw him. He stood among a group of junior disciples, ostensibly watching their sword forms, though she knew he was listening.
Maelin stepped closer until her breath brushed Lyra's cheek. "Maybe we should test how quick you really are. See if the rumors are true."
The shove came fast, aimed to send Lyra stumbling into the fountain behind her.
For a moment, instinct screamed to let it happen, the humiliation would be safer than revealing anything. But the next moment, that coiled tide in her chest surged, and the world sharpened.
The shadow of Maelin's body stretched unnaturally as it fell across the flagstones, catching at the edge of Lyra's own. In that dark seam, Lyra's will flickered, just enough to drag at Maelin's balance, so the shove missed by an inch.
Maelin stumbled forward instead, her hand splashing into the fountain. Gasps erupted from the onlookers.
"Careful," Lyra said softly, too softly for anyone but Maelin to hear. "You'll catch cold."
The other girl jerked her hand back, dripping, eyes narrowing. She knew something had happened, even if she couldn't name it.
Before Maelin could retort, Kieran's voice cut across the courtyard. "Is this how Celestial Harmony's disciples spend their morning? Picking on those beneath them?"
The crowd fell silent.
Kieran's gaze was unreadable as it shifted from Maelin to Lyra. "Return to your duties," he said finally.
The disciples dispersed with reluctant mutters. Maelin lingered half a second longer, her glare promising this wasn't over, before she stalked away.
Lyra adjusted the robes in her arms and made for the laundry hall without looking back. But she could feel Kieran's eyes on her all the way across the courtyard, not in judgment exactly, but with the same measuring weight she'd felt yesterday.
Inside the quiet of the laundry hall, the warmth from the drying stones should have eased the tension in her shoulders. It didn't. Her hands shook slightly as she wrung out the hem of the ruined robe. She told herself it was from the cold.
But the truth pressed in on her like the walls of the small chamber. Maelin had nearly seen. Kieran had certainly seen. And somewhere in the city, the Shadow Court was watching.
She was running out of safe places to stand.
By the time she stepped outside again, the sun was already beginning to dip. The wind had picked up, sending a flurry of yellow leaves spiraling across the courtyard. Lyra paused, eyes following their twisting fall, when a whisper brushed her ear.
"Careful, little shadow."
She spun, but no one stood behind her. Only the lengthening shapes of evening and the faint impression of a figure vanishing around the far colonnade.
Her heart beat once, twice, too fast.
The Shadow Court had followed her here.