By the time they returned to Cyan House, the sky had already begun to dim.
Tara stepped down from the carriage with a quiet breath of relief, as if the moment her feet touched familiar ground, some invisible weight had finally loosened from her chest. Home had never looked this comforting before.
And yet, even with that relief, her thoughts refused to settle.
Her mind was still trapped in that moment when Rowan and Nyra had returned from the third hall. Something had felt wrong then. Not obvious enough for everyone to notice.
But wrong.
Both of them had acted normal. Rowan's voice had remained calm, his steps steady, his posture as straight as ever. Nyra, too, had kept herself composed, speaking little and hiding behind silence.
But their faces had betrayed them.
The colour had nearly drained from Rowan's face, as if he had seen something so horrible that part of him was still trapped inside it. His expression had remained controlled, but that control looked too tight—like someone forcing a door shut with both hands while something on the other side kept trying to break through.
And Nyra…
Nyra's whole face had turned red.
Not a little red.
A deep, burning red that reached all the way to her ears.
She had kept lowering her head whenever Tara so much as glanced at her, as if her face alone might reveal a secret, she desperately wanted buried.
Tara had wanted to ask what had happened.
She really had.
But the air around the two of them had made questions feel dangerous, so she stayed silent the entire way back.
Then, when she stepped forward to take Ahaan into her arms, his expression had cracked for the first time since his birth.
It lasted only a moment.
But Tara saw it clearly.
A strange, shaken look passed over his face, as though he had just seen something impossible and still could not decide whether it had truly been real. She had frozen for half a heartbeat, staring at Rowan, Nyra, and Ahaan together as if trying to understand what had happened there… and what she had somehow missed.
A deeply confused thought rose inside her.
She had no answer.
So, they left the library, returned home, and carried that same suffocating silence with them all the way back in the carriage. Even now, standing in the courtyard of Cyan House, Tara found herself glancing once more toward Rowan and Ahaan.
And yet something about today had touched both of them.
Something none of them were saying aloud.
Tara stared at them for one more second, then let out a slow breath and shook her head.
Ah, I don't know. I'm just happy we escaped that place.
—
House of the Skye Family
That night, Nyra sat on her bed with a pillow crushed tightly against her chest, as if strangling the pillow might somehow strangle the memory too.
It did not help.
Her face was still red.
Not normal red. Not a little embarrassed red. This was the kind of red that made her want to bury herself, the bed, and possibly the entire house beneath the ground.
Because her mind, with the cruelty of a personal enemy, kept dragging her back to that moment in the library.
Rowan on his knees.
That strange purple curse crawling from the corners of his eyes.
Her own heartbeat pounding so loudly she had been certain the entire third hall could hear it.
And then—
Rowan is my friend. I have to save him.
That had been her only thought.
At least… until the memory twisted and ruined her life again.
Nyra buried half her face into the pillow and groaned, because now she remembered just how close her lips had gotten—
And then—
"Ouch, Nyra. Stop pressing my eyes."
Her whole body stiffened again just from remembering it.
Because Rowan had moved.
Spoken.
Been completely, perfectly alive at the exact moment she had nearly—
In her panic, she had shoved him away so hard his head had knocked against the shelf.
Nyra squeezed the pillow harder.
"What the hell was I thinking at that time?" she muttered into the fabric, her voice muffled with pure suffering.
Then she flopped back against the bed and dragged the pillow over her face entirely.
"Ahhhh—ahhhhh! Why am I still thinking about that?!"
At that exact moment, the door opened.
Her mother peeked in.
"Nyra, what happened? Why are you screaming?"
Nyra threw the pillow aside and sat up so fast she looked guilty of actual murder.
"Mom!"
Her mother stepped inside with calm curiosity—the kind mothers only had when they already suspected something embarrassing was happening and fully intended to enjoy every second of it.
Nyra stared at her with suspicious intensity. Then, after a few seconds of gathering what remained of her dignity, she asked slowly, "Mom… do you remember that story you told me? About cursed books… and how to remove the curse… right?"
Her mother blinked once.
"Oh. That story." Then she smiled. "Yes, I remember."
Nyra leaned forward immediately. "And that part about how to cure it?"
Her mother nodded. "Yes."
Nyra's eyes sharpened at once.
"That part was real… right?"
For one hopeful second, she held on.
Then her mother smiled and said, far too casually, "Oh, that part? No. I made it up."
Nyra froze.
Completely.
It felt as if her soul had stepped out of her body, taken one look at the situation, and decided it wanted no part of it.
Her mother waved a hand as if this were a small and unimportant detail. "The cursed-book part comes from an old tale, yes. But the cure?" She placed a hand against her chest with perfect confidence. "That was my addition. You were small. You liked dramatic stories."
Nyra stared at her in absolute shock, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and empty.
Her mother, meanwhile, only grew more cheerful.
"You asked me because you liked that part, didn't you?" she said, eyes sparkling with the self-satisfaction of a woman who had just discovered she was her own favourite storyteller. "Ah, I really did make it beautiful. A king opens a cursed book, the curse catches him, and then the queen kisses him and saves his life…" She pressed both hands dramatically to her chest. "Aww. That was a wonderful scene."
Nyra's mouth opened wider.
No words came out.
Her mother turned slightly to the side, raising one hand in the air as if an invisible audience had begun applauding her genius. "Honestly, I think I should become a writer. Maybe one day I'll become a great author like J. Rama."
She even struck a pose at the end.
Nyra stared at her for one full second.
Then exploded.
"MOMMMM—I HATE YOUUUU!"
She grabbed the nearest thing—a cushion—and hurled it at her. Her mother gasped and dodged just in time.
"Nyra!"
"You made it up?!" Another pillow flew. "You made it up?!"
A folded cloth hit the door.
Then a cushion.
Then something soft and harmless but thrown with the full emotional force of betrayal.
"I almost—I really thought—YOU FARUDI!"
Her mother retreated backward toward the hallway, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "How was I supposed to know you'd actually try it someday?!"
Nyra grabbed another pillow like a warrior reaching for her final weapon.
"GET OUT!"
Her mother slipped outside just before the pillow struck the door. From the other side, still laughing, she called, "At least now I know you really liked the story!"
Nyra let out a scream so loud it probably frightened the whole house. Then she collapsed backward onto the bed, grabbed the poor pillow again, and buried her burning face into it.
When she finally spoke, her voice came out muffled, dying beneath the cloth.
"How could I face Rowan tomorrow…?"
A second later, another broken groan escaped her.
"Ahhh—I hate you, Mom…"
And outside the room, her mother paused for just a moment.
Then, with quiet pride, she thought only one thing.
I really did become a good writer.
To be continue…