With a heavy thud, Lyra was shoved to the ground.
Stone bit into her palms.
The Moonstone frame slipped from her grasp.
Time slowed—just enough for her to see it fall.
The glass shattered upon impact.
A sharp, sacred crack echoed through the chamber like an omen breaking.
Fragments scattered across the stone floor, glinting under the hall’s pale torchlight like broken frost. The image within—her mother holding her in a rare, gentle smile—was torn and stained in an instant.
Red spread across it.
Not ink.
Not paint.
Blood.
Lyra froze.
For a moment, she could not breathe.
Then her body moved on its own.
“Mother…” she whispered, voice breaking.
She dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she reached toward the shattered frame.
But before her fingers could touch it—
a hand seized her wrist.
Ronan.
He pulled her back sharply.
“Lyra,” he said, voice strained, “do not touch it. The glass will cut you.”
She fought him instantly.
Her strength was unsteady, frantic, like a wounded wolf cornered by grief.
“Let me go,” she choked out. “That is my mother’s image—my only one—let me go!”
Her voice cracked fully on the last word.
Ronan tightened his hold, panic flickering in his eyes as he caught sight of the blood already blooming across her palm.
“Stop moving,” he said urgently, gripping her injured hand. “You are bleeding.”
Then, softer—almost desperate—
“I will have it restored. I swear it to you. Just do not hurt yourself like this.”
He lifted her hand and pressed a trembling kiss to her knuckles, as though that alone could steady her breaking spirit.
Lyra shook in his arms.
Not from pain alone.
But from something deeper—something unraveling.
“This is mine,” she whispered fiercely. “It is the only thing I have left of her.”
Behind them, Kael stepped forward, expression tightening as he looked at the scene.
But before he could speak—
Virella moved.
She reached for the shattered frame.
“Virella, no—” Kael started.
Too late.
A shard of Moon-forged glass sliced through her palm.
Blood welled instantly, dripping onto the broken image.
Ronan released Lyra at once.
“Virella!” he exclaimed, rushing forward and catching Virella’s hand. “You are bleeding!”
The shift was immediate.
Concern replaced everything.
Virella winced, but her voice was soft—carefully broken.
“It is nothing,” she said, smiling faintly despite the blood. “Only a small wound. As long as the portrait is safe… that is all that matters.”
Lyra stared.
At the blood.
At the shattered image.
At the way everyone had already turned away from her pain.
Her breath turned shallow.
“What…” she whispered, barely audible, “has my mother ever done to you?”
No one answered.
Kael had already signaled for the healer from the inner hall.
Ronan was still tending to Virella.
Even the elders murmured softly around her, concerned for the wrong wound.
Lyra bent down slowly.
Her fingers hovered over the broken photograph.
Carefully.
Reverently.
But the paper had already soaked through—blood bleeding into Selene’s face, distorting it, swallowing her smile into something unrecognizable.
Lyra’s vision blurred.
And suddenly—
she was no longer in the hall.
She was back in memory.
A carriage overturned beneath storm-dark skies.
Her mother’s arms wrapped around her.
Warm.
Protective.
Final.
And then—
silence.
When Lyra came back to herself, she was trembling so violently her hands would not obey her.
Something inside her broke cleanly.
Not loudly.
Just completely.
Her body collapsed forward.
And everything went dark.
**
When she woke, the first thing she saw was Virella.
Sitting beside her bed like a gentle shadow.
Wearing guilt like a veil.
But her eyes—
her eyes were not sorry.
“Lyra,” Virella said softly, “I only wanted to help. I never meant for this. You are not angry with me, are you?”
Silence.
Lyra said nothing.
So Virella smiled.
And the softness in her face slipped—just slightly.
“You see?” she murmured. “It is not so difficult to take what belongs to you.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“This is only the beginning.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“I will make everyone who once looked at you… look at me instead.”
Lyra’s eyes remained empty.
But she was listening.
Virella leaned closer, voice turning almost playful.
“Kael… Ronan… even your father,” she whispered. “They will all choose me in the end.”
Still no response.
So Virella tilted her head.
“Do you know why Kael began to change?”
That finally made Lyra move.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Her voice came out hoarse.
“Why?”
Virella smiled faintly, as if she had been waiting for that exact word.
“I brought a priest from the northern rites,” she said lightly. “He cast bones and read your fate.”
A pause.
Then—
“He said you are cursed.”
Lyra’s breath caught.
Virella continued, unbothered.
“He said those close to you will suffer misfortune. And that your mother… died because the curse demanded it.”
Lyra’s fingers tightened against the blanket.
Cold spread through her chest.
“And Kael believed it,” Virella finished simply.
Something in Lyra went still.
So that was it.
Not truth.
Not love.
Only words spoken beneath ritual smoke and superstition.
A curse.
A convenient story.
Her vision dimmed at the edges.
Her fists clenched until her nails bit into her palms.
Pain grounded her—but only barely.
**
Ronan visited later that day.
Twice.
Maybe three times.
Lyra did not respond.
He sat beside her bed as if nothing had shifted between them.
As if she were still the same girl who once trusted his voice more than her own thoughts.
“The healer said you must not overthink,” he told her gently. “Virella only took the photograph to protect it. She meant no harm.”
A pause.
“I know you resent her,” he added, softer. “But she is not what you think she is.”
Lyra did not move.
Only when the photograph was mentioned did her fingers twitch slightly.
Ronan noticed.
He reached out, brushing her cheek with a faint, practiced tenderness.
“Kael had it restored,” he said. “I will bring it back to you when I return from duty.”
Then he left.
**
That evening, Kael came.
He carried the frame.
Fixed.
But imperfect.
The image was blurred—Selene’s face softened into something almost erased by the restoration.
Kael placed it carefully on the table.
“Even after all efforts,” he said quietly, “it cannot be fully restored. Virella tried her best.”
Lyra stared at it.
Long.
Silent.
Then she spoke.
“Throw it away.”
Kael stiffened.
“What?”
Her voice was steadier this time.
“Throw it away.”
Kael’s grip tightened around the frame.
“Virella worked hard to save this—”
Lyra finally looked at him.
Her eyes were hollow.
Not angry.
Not pleading.
Just emptied of expectation.
“If it had not been touched,” she said softly, “none of this would have happened.”
Silence fell.
Then she asked—
“Kael… do you also believe I caused Mother’s death?”
The air stopped.
Even the torches seemed to dim.
Kael did not answer.
And in that absence—
she understood.
Lyra exhaled slowly.
Her voice cracked only once.
“I see.”
Her gaze drifted back to the blurred image.
Then away.
Somewhere far beyond it.
**
Later, Theron arrived.
His presence filled the room like a storm that no longer needed to announce itself.
“Ever since you returned,” he said sharply, “this household has known nothing but chaos.”
His eyes narrowed.
“When will you learn to behave like Virella?”
Lyra did not respond.
Not even a glance.
Something in that silence displeased him further.
But he said nothing more.
When he left, the room felt emptier than before.
**
At last, Lyra spoke again.
“I will leave.”
Her voice was quiet.
Final.
“My mother left me a holding of her own. I will not remain here any longer.”
Kael turned sharply.
For the first time, uncertainty crossed his face.
“Lyra,” he said slowly, “I have already asked Virella to begin learning the affairs of your estate.”
