The bells rang for a long time.
They always did.
Virelia pretended the sound was ceremonial—an old tradition meant to honor the dead—but everyone knew better. Bells were warnings. They were the city's way of reminding its people that death did not arrive quietly, and it never arrived alone.
Aerys listened from his chamber as the final echo faded into the night.
Seven deaths in three months.
Seven truths uncovered.
And something missing that he could not name.
He sat at his desk, the ledger still open before him, staring at the sentence written in his own hand.
DO NOT TRUST LYRA VAEL.
The ink was fresh. No more than a day old.
Aerys leaned back slowly, chair creaking beneath his weight. "That's very helpful," he muttered to the empty room. "Care to explain why?"
Silence answered.
He rubbed his eyes, pressing his fingers hard against his temples. There was a dull ache there, the kind that followed heavy use of his power. But beneath it was something sharper—a hollowness, like a room he knew had once been full.
Lyra Vael.
The name refused to stay still. It slipped through his thoughts like smoke, leaving behind fragments of sensation rather than memory.
Blue light.
A quiet voice.
Hands steady against his, even when his were shaking.
Aerys exhaled slowly.
You're projecting, he told himself. Filling gaps with fantasy.
That was dangerous. Worse than ignorance.
He straightened and reached for a second book from the shelf behind him—a thinner volume bound in cracked leather. Unlike the ledger, its pages were numbered not by date, but by loss.
He opened it to the first page.
What I Have Forgotten
The list was longer than he liked to admit.
— My mother's face
— The sound of my childhood home
— Why I fear deep water
— Who taught me to read Veinmarks
— The first person I killed
He turned the page.
— Lyra Vael
Aerys froze.
"That's new," he whispered.
His fingers trembled as he traced the ink. The handwriting was steady, deliberate. This wasn't a panicked note scrawled in fear. It was a decision.
You knew forgetting her mattered.
The ache in his head pulsed once, sharply, as if in agreement.
A knock sounded at the door.
Aerys snapped the book shut and slid it back into place. "Enter."
The door opened just wide enough for Captain Rhen Volmark to slip inside. His expression was tight, jaw clenched in a way Aerys had come to associate with bad news.
"Council summons," Rhen said. "Now."
Aerys stood. "That didn't take long."
"They're… unsettled."
"They should be."
Rhen hesitated, then lowered his voice. "Word of Halvren's death is spreading faster than expected. Someone wants panic."
"Someone already has it," Aerys replied. "They're just letting it breathe."
—
The High Council Chamber sat at the heart of the palace, a circular room carved from pale stone veined with gold. Seven seats rose in a tiered arc, each occupied by a figure cloaked in ceremonial white.
Seven seats.
One for each bell.
Aerys stood alone in the center as the doors sealed behind him with a heavy thud.
"Truth-Hunter Noctyne," intoned Councillor Mereth, her voice echoing unnaturally. "You were present at the scene of Lord Halvren's death."
"I was summoned," Aerys replied. "And I complied."
"What did the blood reveal?" asked another, Councillor Veyne, his eyes sharp and calculating.
Aerys met his gaze. "That Halvren trusted his killer. That his death was part of a broader design. And that the design is not yet finished."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
Mereth raised a hand. Silence fell.
"You claim conspiracy," she said. "Yet you offer no name."
"I offer something more valuable," Aerys said. "Pattern."
Veyne scoffed. "Convenient. Patterns are difficult to punish."
"Truth often is."
A sharp inhale echoed from one of the seats. Councillor Threx, youngest of the seven, leaned forward. "You're withholding."
"Yes."
Aerys didn't bother denying it.
Mereth's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"Because some truths collapse the moment they're spoken," Aerys said evenly. "And I would prefer this city remain standing."
A long silence followed.
Finally, Mereth spoke again. "You will continue your investigation."
Aerys inclined his head.
"But," she continued, "you will do so under supervision."
Aerys felt it then—the subtle shift in the air, the tightening of invisible threads.
"Supervision?" he echoed.
"An observer," Veyne said. "One whose loyalty we trust."
Aerys' chest tightened.
"Who?" he asked.
The doors behind him opened.
Soft footsteps crossed the stone.
Aerys turned.
And the world tilted.
She stood framed by torchlight, dark hair braided loosely over one shoulder, eyes the unmistakable blue of living Veinlight. Her presence pressed against him like a remembered song—familiar, aching, dangerous.
Lyra Vael.
She met his gaze without flinching.
"Aerys," she said gently, as if testing the sound of his name. "It's been a while."
His breath caught.
"I don't know you," he said.
Something flickered across her face—pain, carefully hidden behind composure.
"I know," she replied. "That's why I'm here."
—
They walked in silence through the palace corridors.
Rhen had wisely vanished the moment Lyra appeared, leaving the two of them alone beneath the vaulted ceilings.
Aerys was acutely aware of her every movement—the way she walked half a step behind him, the way her gaze flicked to his hands when he flexed them unconsciously.
"You were warned about me," Lyra said at last.
Aerys stopped.
He turned slowly. "Yes."
"And you still agreed to this?"
"I didn't agree," he said. "I was assigned."
She nodded. "Of course."
Aerys studied her face, searching for… something. Recognition. Memory. Anything.
Nothing came.
Only that same aching pull.
"Why does my own handwriting tell me not to trust you?" he asked bluntly.
Lyra didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was quiet.
"Because trusting me costs you."
"Explain."
"I can't," she said. "Not yet."
Aerys laughed once, sharply. "You see the problem."
"I see all of them," Lyra replied. "Including the ones you've forgotten."
That did it.
The silver beneath his skin stirred, faint but unmistakable.
Lyra noticed instantly.
"Don't," she said softly.
Aerys' jaw tightened. "You're standing in front of me, claiming to know me better than I know myself. You expect me not to look?"
"I expect you to survive," she said. "And touching my blood will hurt you."
"Everything hurts me," he snapped.
Lyra stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Not like this."
For a heartbeat, they stood inches apart.
Aerys could smell ink and something faintly floral—jasmine, maybe. His mind screamed for context it could not find.
"Tell me one thing," he said. "Just one."
Lyra met his gaze. "What?"
"Have I ever loved you?"
Her breath caught.
"Yes," she said. "More than you should have."
The ache in his chest flared, sharp and sudden.
"Then why are you still alive?" he asked.
Lyra smiled sadly. "Because you never managed to kill me."
—
That night, Aerys dreamed.
He stood in a field of ash beneath a red sky. Bells rang in the distance, warped and slow.
Lyra stood before him, blood running from her nose as she pressed both hands to his chest.
"Don't remember this," she begged.
"I have to," he said.
"You'll lose everything."
He smiled at her. "I already am."
He woke with a gasp, heart hammering.
His sheets were twisted around him, damp with sweat.
On the bedside table lay something that had not been there before.
A small glass vial.
Inside it, a single drop of glowing blue blood.
And beneath it, a note written in Lyra's hand:
When you're ready to forget me again, drink this instead.
Outside, the bells began to ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Aerys stared at the vial, his pulse racing.
"Lyra Vael," he whispered.
The night answered with silence.