Lyra was limp in my arms.
The fight, the screams, the weight of years she carried—it had finally wrung her dry. I'd held her through it, through every choked sob and shaking breath, her voice ripped raw by grief and guilt. Now she was quiet. Tear-streaked. Her fingers still curled into the collar of my coat like I might vanish if she let go.
I flew steady through the cold night, keeping her close. The wind didn't bite so sharply anymore, not when I was focused on the way she breathed—slow, uneven, but alive.
I thought about everything she'd confessed. The blood on her hands, the memories she'd buried just to survive.
I told her she wasn't her past—but how could I expect her to believe that when I kept putting the weight of the future on her shoulders?
The gods chose her for a reason. That much hadn't changed.
But now I was starting to realize… I had, too.
I just hadn't expected her to change me back.
The safehouse came into view through the snow—small, half-buried, tucked into the silence of the white field like it had always belonged there. Light flickered behind the shutter slats. Still. Waiting.
I landed softly and pushed the door open with my shoulder. The warmth hit first—pine, smoke, and old wood wrapping around me like a blanket.
Inside was small and clean, the air faintly scented with resin and ash. A single lamp burned low, its light trembling across the walls.
Revik and Muir were already inside. Revik sat on the edge of the cot, methodically sharpening his blade. Muir leaned against the wall near the window, one knee propped, eyes half-lidded but sharp. They both looked up when the door creaked.
"She's alright," I said before either of them could ask. "Just… done."
Revik's gaze flicked to Lyra, limp in my arms, then to the small figure already curled beneath a cloak on the far side of the cot. The girl lay half-awake, her hands hidden inside the folds of fabric, eyes glassy in the firelight.
Muir pushed off the wall with a low whistle. "You look like you flew through a storm."
"Close enough," I muttered, lowering Lyra carefully to the cot.
She stirred at the motion, a small sound catching in her throat. Her eyes fluttered open—unfocused at first—then found mine. I kept my voice low.
"You're okay," I said.
For a heartbeat she just blinked at me, dazed and hollow, before her body gave out completely. I eased her down, tucking the blanket over her shoulders.
The little girl moved then—slow, uncertain. She crawled closer, her small hands trembling as they found Lyra's sleeve. Lyra froze, then shifted, wordless, letting the girl cling to her arm. The child pressed herself against Lyra's side, curling small and still, and within moments sleep took her.
Lyra didn't move again. Her hand hovered above the girl's back before settling there—a light, protective touch.
I stood there longer than I meant to, watching the two of them. The firelight threw their shapes together: one small, fragile thing seeking warmth; one trying to keep the fire from consuming her.
I wasn't sure which of them looked more breakable.
Revik rose from the cot and checked the shutter slats. "No signs of pursuit," he murmured. "We'll keep watch in shifts, just in case."
"Good," I said, though my focus hadn't left the two on the bed.
Muir busied himself lighting another lamp, its glow pushing back the corners of the room. "She hasn't made a sound since we found her," he said quietly, nodding toward the girl. "Not that she can, I guess. Poor thing keeps staring at the fire like she's afraid it'll go out."
No one spoke for a while. The only sound was the faint crackle of the hearth and the slow breathing of the child.
Lyra's eyes stayed on her—haunted, tender. "She doesn't need to speak," she murmured. "She's still alive."
Revik paused, hand on the latch. "She'll sleep soon," he said softly. "You both will."
Lyra's lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "Maybe," she whispered. "When the world stops burning."
The words lingered in the air, heavy as ash. Even Muir didn't try to joke. The fire popped once and went still again, as if it understood.
I rinsed the blood from my hands in the basin, watching the water cloud pink and clear again. When I looked up, I caught it—a faint shimmer under Lyra's skin, light pulsing at her temples like something alive. Revik saw it too.
"Rai," he murmured.
"I see it," I said quietly.
He didn't ask. He didn't need to.
The child shifted in her sleep, a soft whimper escaping her. Lyra soothed her instantly, brushing a soot-dark strand of hair from her forehead.
For a long moment, the sight held me still. The contrast between them—the girl's fragile innocence and Lyra's unyielding strength—struck something deep.
This was what she fought for.
What she burned for.
And gods help me, I didn't know if the world deserved her.
Something in Lyra was changing.
Not just her dragon—something older, deeper.
A power I couldn't name, waking beneath her skin.
And I wasn't sure if what she was becoming would save us—
or consume everything that stood too close.
The fire crackled behind us, the warmth of it soft against the lingering chill of the snow still clinging to my boots. Lyra and the girl were asleep now—two silhouettes bound together under a shared blanket. Peaceful. Fragile. Fleeting.
I looked at them one last time before nodding to Revik and stepping outside. He followed without a word. Muir stayed, for once not smirking, watching over the sleeping pair.
The cold met us sharp and clean, the night air so still it hurt to breathe. We walked to the edge of the trees, where the snow muted everything but our steps.
Revik leaned against a trunk, arms crossed. "Alright," he said quietly. "What's eating at you?"
I took a breath. "I've been rethinking everything," I admitted. "The war. My father's plan to end it. I don't think I can do it his way."
Revik's brow lifted, no mockery in his face—only quiet understanding. "Finally," he said, exhaling. "I was starting to wonder how long it would take you."
"You knew?"
"Of course I knew. Your father's way was never peace, Raiden—it was control. Fire and domination. He didn't want to end the war, he wanted to own it."
I nodded slowly. "I thought it was the only way. That burning it all down was the price of building something new."
Revik's voice softened. "It's not too late to choose different."
I looked back toward the cabin—toward her. "She's made me believe maybe a world where peace exists isn't naive. Maybe it's possible. And maybe I want that future more than I ever wanted a crown."
Revik smirked faintly. "Funny. You might be the only one fit to wear it because you don't crave it."
I huffed a laugh. "Maybe. But if there's ever to be a ruler again—it shouldn't be just me."
Revik tilted his head. "You already know who you mean, don't you?"
I didn't answer. My eyes went back to the glow in the cabin window. Lyra, asleep, her silver-white hair spilling like moonlight over fur and firelight. Even in rest, she looked like something divine—terrible and beautiful.
"I'll need a queen," I said softly. "And gods help me… I think I already found her."
Revik gave a dry laugh. "If she doesn't kill you first, you might just stand a chance."
"Yeah," I said, smiling faintly. "Maybe."
We stood there in the stillness, two soldiers watching a dawn that hadn't come yet—and daring to believe it might.
Hours passed.
The fire burned low. The warmth in the room thinned to quiet embers.
A sound broke it—low and broken.
The merchant.
He stirred on the table where we'd left him, head lolling, a hoarse groan slipping through the gag. I turned, watching as his eyes fluttered open, confusion and pain warring in his expression. The movement sent a jolt through his ruined knees; he choked on a gasp.
I crossed the room, yanked him up, and slammed him to the floor. I crouched over him, voice flat and calm. "You ready to talk now?"
He nodded frantically, breath shallow.
I pulled the gag free. He gasped for air, trembling. "Please—"
"Name," I said.
"Sorin Vale."
"Alright, Sorin." I tilted my head. "You know why we're talking?"
He gave a weak laugh that dissolved into pain. "Money? I've got vaults, trade accounts—"
I smirked. "We're not after coin."
Confusion flickered across his face, then dread.
"No," I said. "We're after something far more valuable."
He swallowed hard. "And what the hell could that possibly be?"
"Knowledge."
The color drained from his face—
because he knew exactly what kind.
I leaned closer, voice dropping to steel. "The Water Relic. You know where it is."
His lips twitched into something that wanted to be a smile. "Rumors," he rasped. "Tavern talk."
I slammed him back into the wall. "Don't waste my time."
He grunted in pain, breath hissing through his teeth. Blood soaked the bindings at his knees. Still, his mouth stayed shut.
I sighed, tired of playing patient, and drove my fist into his jaw. His head snapped back, blood splattering onto the floor.
"Where is it?"
He coughed, spat red. "Go to hell."
Before I could strike again, a sharp voice cut the air.
"For fuck's sake."
Lyra.
We all turned as she stepped into view—barefoot, pale, wrapped in a cloak that looked too heavy for her frame. Her hair hung loose, catching the firelight in strands of silver and white. Her eyes burned violet.
She raised her hand, and a flash of obsidian spun through the air.
The dagger hissed past Sorin's cheek, slicing it open before burying itself deep in the wood with a solid, final thunk. He froze, shaking, a thin line of blood trailing down his face.
Lyra walked forward, calm and deliberate—death wrapped in silence.
Sorin Vale looked truly afraid.
And he should be.
Because I wasn't the one he needed to fear.
She was.