Six months passed.
Winter retreated from the city, taking with it the filthy snow from the streets—but not the cold of the General's map room. In Elion's house, however, spring flowed in through open windows.
Lyra had changed.
Her ribs no longer showed beneath her dress. Her hair, once dull and brittle, now held a quiet shine. But the true change wasn't in her appearance. It was in her eyes.
The constant panic had given way to silent vigilance.
She no longer fled to her room when the front door slammed.
She stayed.
She listened.
She learned.
That afternoon, Elion's library was covered in maps and supply reports.
The war in the north had stalled, and logistics had become a nightmare—one Aurelian dragged into his cousin's house whenever the Palace grew suffocating.
"Incompetence," Aurelian snarled, slamming a report onto the table. "Pure incompetence. Three supply ships 'lost to storms' in the same week. And the quartermaster claims it was bad luck."
He paced back and forth, his red cloak whipping like a banner of irritation.
Elion studied the papers calmly, brow furrowed.
"The sea in the Iron Strait is treacherous this time of year, Aurelian. It might be true."
"It's not," the General snapped, stopping by the window. "It's theft. Someone is diverting the cargo and selling it on the black market. But the reports are flawless. Dates match the recorded storms. I can't prove the error."
Lyra sat at her small desk in the corner.
A history book lay open before her, but she wasn't reading.
Her restless eyes jumped from the page to the papers spread across the central table.
The pattern.
Something was wrong with the pattern.
She stood.
The movement was quiet, but in the tense room it drew attention.
Lyra approached the table.
Aurelian turned, disdain already sharpened in his gaze.
"What is it now? Did the inkwell dry up again? Or do you need me to hold your hand so you can draw the alphabet today?"
Elion shot his cousin a warning look, but Lyra didn't retreat.
The fear was still there—her heart pounded against her ribs—but the need to correct the mistake was stronger. Hyperfocus screamed in her mind.
"It wasn't the storm," she said. Her voice was low, but clear.
Aurelian let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"Oh, forgive me. The navigation expert speaks. What do you know about the Iron Strait, girl?"
"I know nothing about the Strait," Lyra replied, eyes on the paper, not on him. "But I know about barrels."
She pointed with a trembling finger at the cargo list of the third ship.
"Here. The manifest says the ship sank carrying a heavy grain load."
"And?" Aurelian crossed his arms, impatient.
"And here," she continued, moving her finger to the departure port report, "it says the ship left with a shallow draft."
Aurelian frowned.
"And what does that mean?"
Lyra finally looked at him. In the General's eyes, she saw doubt.
"If the ship had been full of grain, it would've been heavy. The draft would've been deep. If it left with a shallow draft…"
"…then it left empty," Elion finished, eyes widening.
"They didn't steal the cargo at sea," Lyra went on, her confidence growing. "They never loaded it in the first place. The captain recorded a storm to justify sinking a ship that was already worthless—and sold the grain back at the departure port."
Silence.
Aurelian walked to the table.
He ripped the paper from beneath Lyra's finger with sudden violence.
His eyes scanned the lines, the numbers, the dates.
His strategic mind—trained for grand battles—had missed the simple detail, the mundane bureaucratic fraud.
But she had seen it.
The slave. The broken piece. The "student" with crooked letters.
He looked at her.
Lyra expected shouting. Expected to be sent back to her corner.
But what she saw on Aurelian's face was worse.
He wasn't grateful.
He was offended.
"Luck," he muttered, tossing the paper back to Elion. "Even a broken clock tells the right time once a day."
He grabbed his cloak.
"I'll have the captain and the port quartermaster arrested."
He reached the door, then paused without turning back.
"And Elion?"
"Yes?"
"Teach her to stay quiet when men are speaking. Her voice gives me a headache."
The door slammed shut.
Elion released the breath he'd been holding, turning to Lyra with undisguised pride.
"You were brilliant, Lyra. Brilliant."
But Lyra didn't smile.
She stared at the closed door, a different kind of cold crawling up her spine.
Aurelian hadn't insulted her because she was useless.
He'd insulted her because, for the first time, she had been useful—too useful.
She looked down at her hands. They had stopped trembling.
I saw what he didn't.
And that small truth—dangerous and sweet—changed everything.
The board had a new piece now.
And she was no longer a pawn.