(A Journal of Quiet Devotion)
Entry the Seventh: On Lyria's Storms
Lyria Lancaster moves through the world like a hurricane made flesh. Where others see only chaos, I have learned to trace the patterns in her wake.
She claims she adopted us by accident, but I've seen the meticulous care with which she maintains our little trio. The way she always steals three sugar cubes instead of two. How she positions herself between Therion and any potential threat before he even notices the danger. The particular tilt of her head when calculating how many bandages we'll need for a given escapade.
Last winter, when the fragmentation fever had Therion screaming himself hoarse, I watched Lyria press her forehead against his and swear viciously at the universe. Not prayers—never prayers—but promises. "You don't get to take him," she told the empty air, hands fisted in his shirt. As if the world itself would heed her warning.
I have never believed in anything as fiercely as Lyria Lancaster believes in us.
Entry the Twelfth: Therion's Gravity
Therion pretends he's a rogue comet—untethered, unpredictable. But I've charted his orbit.
There's a particular way his breathing changes when he's about to phase, a slight hitch before the dissolution. I've cataloged seven distinct variations of his smirk, can predict with 87% accuracy when one of his "harmless diversions" will turn violent.
Last month, when the Syndicate cornered us in the Observatory ruins, I watched him calculate the angles. Saw the exact moment he decided to teleport directly into their midst as a distraction. Lyria's knife at my back stopped me from interfering, but I noted the way Therion's trajectory always—always—kept the danger facing away from us.
He thinks we don't notice his sacrifices. We do.
Entry the Twenty-Third: The Weight of Witness
They don't know I keep records.
Lyria's tells when she's hiding pain (right thumb tapping against her smallest finger). Therion's tells when he's nearing a fragmentation event (the way he unconsciously rubs at his left wrist). The exact number of steps between our safehouse and the nearest Obelisk (347 at a hurried pace).
I document everything. Not just for research, but because someone should bear witness to these small, sacred things:
The way Lyria hums off-key when mending our clothes. How Therion always saves the burnt crust of the bread for me because he knows I prefer it. The unspoken agreement that we never let each other fall asleep alone after nightmares.
If this is my last entry, let it say this: I have been loved by forces of nature, and it has been the greatest privilege of my existence.
Marginalia:
Lyria's birthday approaches (acquire lockpicks)
Therion's left boot wearing thin
Research frostflower applications for pain relief
Final Note:
Should the worst occur, burn this journal. They would hate being seen so clearly. But preserve the pressed stormblooms between the pages—they belong to Lyria.