The stars hung low that night, brushing the towers of Caer Theron like dust on a spellbook's spine. The castle grounds were still, the air soft and cool, touched by the scent of midnight blossoms and ancient stone.
In the royal observatory—far above the war rooms and courtly chambers—Lyra sat on the edge of the arched window, legs dangling over, gown trailing like a pool of moonlight behind her.
She was not yet a crowned warrior. Not yet bound to a blade or a cause.
Just a girl.
Just a soul born beneath two moons.
Lucien sat beside her, barefoot, coat tossed aside, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A bottle of dark wine sat between them—liberated from the high table with a charm and a wink.
He was smiling in that way only he could: like he knew the joke before the punchline, but it still hurt to tell.
"You're not supposed to be here," Lyra murmured, eyes never leaving the stars.
"I'm not supposed to be a lot of things."
"High Mages don't sneak into towers to drink with the princess."
"I'm not a High Mage yet."
"You're still dangerous."
He leaned back on his elbows, letting the sky fill his gaze. "Then why do you keep inviting me?"
She was quiet a moment. Then—
"Because when I'm with you, I feel like I can forget the weight."
Lucien glanced at her. "The crown?"
She nodded. "The prophecies. The rituals. The war everyone says is coming but never names."
"You don't believe in fate?"
"I don't trust it," she said. "Fate doesn't ask. It demands."
Lucien hummed. "I used to believe everything was written. That the stars held our threads and the gods just tugged the strings."
"And now?"
"I think the stars are blind," he whispered. "And we're the ones tying knots around our own throats."
A silence passed between them, full of unsaid things.
Then Lyra reached for the wine. Lucien passed it to her without a word.
She took a long drink, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and sighed.
"You ever wonder what we'd be, without all this?"
Lucien tilted his head. "All what?"
"The magic. The curses. The Veil. The kingdom. The—" She gestured around them. "Everything."
"All the reasons we're not allowed to love each other."
Her breath caught. A small laugh escaped—bitter and soft. "You said it, not me."
"I've said worse."
He reached out then, brushing her wrist with tentative fingers. She didn't pull away.
"I think," he said slowly, "if we'd met in another life, I would've followed you anyway."
Lyra looked at him. The moonlight made his face softer. Younger. More honest.
"And what would we be, then?"
Lucien's smile faded.
He looked up again.
And in a voice barely audible, he said—
"Free."
They sat in silence until the candle in the window guttered out.
And for the first time in centuries of memory and war, of rebirth and regret, Lyra remembered that moment not as part of a grand tragedy…
But as something real.
Not fate.
Not prophecy.
Not a cycle.
Just them.
Two souls, in the quiet, before the ruin.