Cool river mist, scented with blooming bellflowers, drifted through the arched window. It clung to the crimson draperies, causing them to billow with a faint sigh. A delicate chime, a small silver bell Lyra had hung herself, sang a single, clear note.
Lyra Vance’s gaze, fixed on the shifting mist, slowly lifted to the bell, then beyond, to the eaves of her chamber. Sun-gilded slate tiles, familiar and untouched by the grime of a decade, burned a perfect image onto her eyes.
A sharp, involuntary humorless laugh escaped her. This scene, so utterly *whole*, a quiet morning in her childhood rooms, was a cruel, vivid dream.
Surely, she was dead. She had to be. The end, then, was this sweet? To relive the moments she had clawed for, fought to preserve, only to lose.
Closing her eyes, Lyra leaned into the illusion. Let the end take her.
Then, a twitch of her eyelids. A voice, impossibly young, pierced the tranquil haze.
“Lyra? Are you awake?”
Not real. Impossible. An echo from a forgotten past, a trick of the mind. Lyra slowly opened her eyes, crushing the fragile spark of hope before it could ignite. Leaning against the round window frame was a boy, barely a man. Callum. His brow was furrowed, his young face a mask of earnest concern.
Another laugh, this one a brittle shard. She knew she smiled, but a sudden blur obscured her vision.
Callum. He had drowned in the Mirewood Fen, swallowed by cold water before he could truly understand the weight of House Vance, before he could feel the cold gaze of the other Houses. He’d left the world too early, long before their parents, before their sisters. Yet, here he was, wearing that same gravely serious expression, as if he carried the burdens of all Aethelgard on his young shoulders.
“Why are you laughing?” His voice, still cracking in places, held a hint of indignation.
“Just… seeing you.” Lyra's voice was rougher than she intended, a gravelly whisper.
Callum’s fine brows knitted tighter. He always wore that handsome face so sloppily. That was one of the boy’s few, endearing talents.
Lyra reached out, her fingers still feeling the phantom chill of battle, the grit of scorched earth. She pressed firmly between his brows, pushing the furrows smooth.
“Don’t frown. It makes you look like a disgruntled mud-gnome.”
*What is this? She’s even more disconnected today?* Callum’s thoughts were transparent on his face. That guileless honesty was a knife twist, and Lyra felt another choked laugh rise.
Callum glanced suspiciously at her bed. “Did you… have a dream or something?”
Too late for night, too early for day. He spoke, disbelief plain, but Lyra’s reply was a low murmur.
“Yes. A very long dream.”
*What is wrong with her today?* Usually, by now, she’d have conjured a fleeting arcane barb or a sharp word, sending him sprawling with some scathing retort about his foolish questions. Instead, she looked out at the sky, a desolate yearning in her eyes.
Her gaze was so achingly wistful, Callum unconsciously rubbed his arm. He recalled how their cousins would complain Lyra had changed, grown distant, when she’d hit her sixteenth year. They said hearing her speak softly gave them chills. Callum felt precisely that now.
He wished she’d just focus on her glyphs, her scrolls, her cryptic calculations, and leave him alone. Watching her stare at the horizon with the gravity of someone who had lived a lifetime of sorrows left him deeply unsettled.
Lyra Vance and… compassion? *I think I’m going to vomit.* He nearly clapped a hand over his mouth, stopping himself just in time.
Despite his efforts, Lyra turned her eyes to him, a slight redness rimming their sharp grey. She offered a fragile, unfamiliar smile.
“I’ve missed you, little brother. More than you know.”
*Is this some new form of torment?* At this point, Callum thought he’d rather just be hit. He nervously surveyed the room. Luckily, Lyra was pressed close to the window frame, out of reach of her usual projectiles—a heavy scroll, a crystal stylus, perhaps a stray, mildly charged rune-stone.
Summoning his courage, Callum tried again. Instead of glaring with her usual silent command of, *Say what you came for and vanish!* Lyra looked at him with an unnerving gentleness, even making a soft sound, an almost-hum, as if to say, *Go ahead, I’m listening.*
Callum quickly wiped the flinch off his face and continued. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything,” Lyra replied, her voice steady now, but still devoid of its usual edge. “Tell me.”
A brief silence stretched between them. Callum clenched his fists, forcing the words out. “…Is this some new form of torment?”
“What are you talking about?” Lyra’s brow furrowed. “Why would I torment you?”
When Callum clamped his mouth shut, glaring with venom in his young eyes, Lyra recalled their past for a fleeting moment. Her memories were a cold, hard knot. No, she hadn’t treated him kindly. She’d been sharp, cutting, often dismissive. But in her heart, in the marrow of her being, she had cherished him, even as she pushed him away, honed by the pragmatic demands of House Vance.
Lyra cleared her throat, composing her expression. She rarely bothered with expressions, her facial muscles long unused to conveying softer sentiments. The wistfulness vanished, her face immediately turning to its familiar, cool, intelligent mask.
Callum found that look far easier to deal with. Noticeably more at ease, he opened his mouth. “The truth is… a sky-serpent flew into my residence…”
“You want me to mend it?”
“H-how did you know?!” Callum flinched, startled, glancing around the room as if a phantom listener lurked. Lyra let out a short, hollow laugh. *Because this isn't just a dream, boy. It’s a memory. One I relive in the cold silence of my grave, every night.*
It had always troubled her. Callum was gentle, full of an open affection the world of Aethelgard rarely tolerated. If he hadn’t been the heir presumptive, their father, Lord Vance, might have praised that temperament. But Callum was to be the head of House Vance. A leader had to be more ruthless, more thorough, than anyone. They had to survive the poisoned politicking, the subtle curses, the open assassinations.
Because of that, whenever something happened, whenever he found a creature in distress, Callum would secretly come to her quarters for help. She was already recognized for her formidable intellect and her skill with intricate glyph-binding, capable of weaving protective wards, offensive spells, and tactical ensnarements. Her rooms were a repository of forgotten lore, ancient runic scripts. Few dared to disturb her.
Her thoughts reached a bitter point. Lyra’s gaze darkened. Lord Vance had hidden her away, Lyra who was deeply involved in the most secret depths of the clan’s glyphic techniques. She had never once attended the Conclave of the Elder Houses, never truly left the Vance estate. The world outside, reeling from the cataclysm, feared and misunderstood the ancient magics she wielded.
Lyra herself wasn’t particularly curious about the world beyond the estate walls. She much preferred spending her time translating forgotten sigils, experimenting with binding sequences, and pouring over dusty tomes in the Glyphic Scriptorium. She had no complaints about her father’s wishes.
Because of that, strange rumors had surrounded Lyra at the time. She wasn't considered a true Vance, too distant a descendant to attend the Conclave. She was so hideously scarred, the House kept her hidden. Even the matchmakers who frequented the Vance estate never uttered her name.
It was only when she was twenty, after appearing for the first time at the Conclave of the Elder Houses hosted by House Vance, that the rumors finally died. That’s what she’d heard. In fact, Lyra had heard those rumors from Theron Blackwood. Blackwood, who used to visit her often, whispering tales of the outside world, of noble deeds and heroic triumphs.
Thinking of it now, Theron Blackwood had been truly impressive. He deceived her, pretending to love her sincerely, twisting her father's trust with honeyed words and false smiles. He had orchestrated Callum's demise, and later, the ruin of House Vance itself.
As Lyra recalled Theron Blackwood’s handsome, young face, a small, involuntary scoff escaped her. At the sound, Callum flinched.
Seeing the naïve Callum overlap with the memory of Blackwood brought another faint, almost pained, laugh out of her. The Vance name, associated with sharp intellect and often-feared glyphic artistry, led people to be wary of even gentle Callum. But Theron Blackwood, with his soft appearance and charming smile, was often praised for his good character, even as he harbored intentions as venomous as any serpent.
Around this age, Callum was especially often compared to others. Of course, he was the type of child who didn’t care for such superficial judgments, but now, Lyra found that fact unsettling. If only this gentle boy, sneaking into his sister’s room and begging her to treat a tiny creature, had been raised differently, perhaps he wouldn’t have met such an early, tragic end. Perhaps, like Blackwood, he could have gathered many people around him, but for true alliance, not deceit.
“W-wait, did you know I’d come? You knew I was raising a sky-serpent? Does Father know too?” Callum’s face turned ashen. Lyra let out a hollow laugh. It was soon replaced by a bitter, weary expression.
In her memory, this was the last day Callum ever came secretly to her quarters. She had turned him away out of annoyance, too engrossed in a complex runic translation. Callum, trying to save the sky-serpent on his own, had ended up pushing it to the brink of death with his clumsy, untrained attempts at healing glyphs. Of all things, that creature had been a nascent spirit-serpent, fragile and rare.
Trying to console him, Lyra had even told him to simply take out its core and dissolve it for its residual essence. Callum had looked at her like she was a monster and gotten angry. But when their father heard the story, he had not punished Lyra. He had rebuked Callum. Lord Vance, always displeased with Callum’s gentle disposition, had blown the matter out of proportion. He summoned him to the main residence, ritually cleansed the dying spirit-creature's body, and forced Callum to witness the harvesting of its core, lecturing him on the cold pragmatism required of a Vance.
Perhaps that was too much of a shock. After that, Callum became quieter, like a different person. It was definitely after that day. Callum stopped speaking honestly to her, burying everything inside. Lyra regretted that day. He had once been a warm child who would talk about himself even without being asked. If that incident had never happened, she might have known why he went alone to the Mirewood Fen… and maybe, she could have prevented his death.
A heavy breath slipped from between Lyra’s lips. Callum, mistaking it for a scoff, hunched his shoulders. *She’s rejecting me.* He knew his sister didn’t particularly care for animals, but when he pleaded, she would usually help—albeit reluctantly. Among the family, she was the most similar to their father, yet compared to him, she had always been incomparably kinder to him.
Lyra moved to a shelf and took out a lacquered obsidian box, etched with shimmering protective glyphs. Callum’s lips curled upward. Looks like she’s going to help this time too!
As she opened the box, revealing a collection of crystal-tipped styluses, vials of alchemically prepared inks, and thin, precious scrolls of rune-paper, she asked casually, “Did you know that sky-serpent is a nascent spirit-creature?”
From his brief look of profound surprise, Lyra realized he hadn’t known. He’d simply seen an injured creature. Yes, this child had always been like that. With a bitter, weary smile, Lyra closed the obsidian box. If she could return to the past, she would protect Callum. Not someone like Theron Blackwood, who pretended to be gentle while hiding the cruelest nature, but this clear-hearted boy—who treated everyone preciously without weighing their worth—would have been far more suitable to be the head of House Vance.
Maybe he wouldn’t have done any great good in the world, but at the very least, he wouldn’t have made as many enemies as Father had. And so, there would have been many who would stand by his side, not out of obligation, but out of genuine loyalty. Even if not noble ward-weavers, there would have been those who would draw their blades and come running simply because he was a Vance.
As Lyra’s gaze slowly rose, it captured Callum’s gentle, hopeful smile.
She held out a small, pre-prepared scroll, bound with a delicate leather cord. “Go on ahead. I’ll follow you. Lay it on a clean surface in your chambers, away from drafts. This will provide a stabilizing field.”
---
The sky-serpent’s internal essence flow was twisted, almost entirely occluded from consuming volatile mana-siphoning lichen. They said spirit-creatures were smarter than humans, but this one didn’t seem to be. To think it had picked up and consumed something so potent from the outer estate grounds.
In all her lives—or rather, even in death—Lyra Vance never imagined she’d have the rare experience of weaving intricate restorative glyphs for a fledgling spirit-serpent. It took three days of focused work, delicately etching glyphs of cleansing, regeneration, and core-stabilization onto its scales, and then binding them with a gentle pulse of her own essence. The creature recovered completely, as if nothing had happened.
“As expected of you, sister!” Callum’s face beamed, brighter than the morning sun.
Lyra gestured curtly at the creature, now preening its iridescent scales on her reading desk. “Since you’re here, take this with you.”
The sky-serpent, apparently unaware that Callum was the one who had brought it to salvation, followed only Lyra around, nudging her hand with its scaled snout, like a loyal, oversized house-cat.
With a face full of irritation and annoyance, Lyra pointed to the creature. Callum chuckled, reaching out to gently gather it into his arms.
“Even so, I think it’ll come back to you again.”
At that, Lyra scowled deeply, glaring at the now-calm spirit-serpent. “Don’t come. If you show up again, I’ll bind a glyph of perpetual flight to your tail and send you to the furthest reaches of the Western Wastes.”
Callum’s laugh, light and unburdened, echoed through the chamber. It was a sound Lyra had not heard in a lifetime. And this time, she would make sure it was not the last. The future would bend. It had to.