Lyra awoke to the rustling of silk and the soft click of slippers on marble.
"Good morning, my lady," Elinor's voice came, gentle as always.
Lyra blinked against the pale morning light streaming through sheer curtains. The ceiling above her shimmered gold in the early sun, carved with a thousand tiny stars. She almost expected to wake up in her straw-filled bed at home. Almost.
But this was not Eldoria.
This was the palace.
"Breakfast has been prepared in the antechamber," Elinor added. "Shall I draw your bath?"
Lyra sat up slowly. "No need. I… I can manage."
Elinor smiled but didn't move. "With respect, my lady, palace protocol dictates your attendants must assist. It's not only for comfort—but appearances."
Lyra sighed. "Appearances seem to be everything here."
---
The morning was filled with polite rituals. Her bathwater was perfumed with rose oil. Her hair was brushed until it gleamed. Three different dresses were presented before she was allowed to choose the least extravagant of them—an emerald green gown that still felt too heavy on her frame.
By the time she sat at the polished table in the adjoining room, a selection of cheeses, sweet pastries, and spiced tea already awaited her. Lyra barely touched any of it.
She couldn't stop thinking about the smell of her mother's oat porridge, thick and plain, with a drizzle of honey when they could afford it.
Elinor noticed her silence. "Would you prefer something simpler, my lady?"
"No," Lyra murmured. "It's not the food. It's… everything else."
---
After breakfast, she was escorted through the palace grounds under supervision of a junior steward. His name was Daren—no older than seventeen, with a stiff posture and nervous energy.
He pointed out halls and statues as if reading from a scroll: "That wing houses the Royal Archives. This corridor leads to the western audience chamber. Please avoid the north tower unless summoned."
Lyra's eyes drifted to the grand tapestries on the walls. Heroes from history, priests lifting orbs of light, winged beings blessing kings. All of them so distant. So unattainable.
She paused before a large portrait of a woman in silver armor, her face stern, her hands clasped over a blade.
"Who's she?" Lyra asked.
"Queen Valleria, second of her name," Daren replied quickly. "Conqueror of the Eastern Rebellion. Patron of the War Mages' College."
"She looks like she never smiled a day in her life."
Daren hesitated, unsure if he should laugh. "Perhaps not, my lady."
Lyra stared at the painting a moment longer. "I wonder what she was like before all this. Before she became a queen."
"History rarely remembers people before, my lady. Only what they become."
That made her stomach twist.
---
As days passed, Lyra settled into a rhythm that didn't quite feel like her own. Every hour was spoken for: etiquette lessons, historical briefings, palace protocols. She was given instruction in everything from how to bow to minor nobles, to how many steps she should keep behind the king.
But she never asked to be part of this world.
In between appointments, she sat by the massive windows of her chamber, staring at the palace gardens and thinking of home.
She thought of her mother's gentle hands kneading dough, of Mira's teasing, of Theo's boots thudding on packed earth.
They felt like ghosts now.
She had written them—letters sealed with shaky wax—but every time she tried to give them to a courier, her courage failed her.
She couldn't explain what had happened. Couldn't even explain it to herself.
---
One afternoon, she found herself in the palace library—an endless vault of scrolls and tomes that smelled of parchment and candle wax. She wandered between towering shelves until she found a book of folk tales from the old provinces.
She sat in a velvet chair, opened the book, and turned to a familiar story: The Weaver's Dream, a tale her mother used to tell her before bed. Her eyes welled with tears before she could stop them.
"Missing home?"
The voice startled her. She looked up and saw a girl—maybe a year or two older—dressed in sapphire robes trimmed with gold. Her posture was poised, her expression unreadable.
"Yes," Lyra admitted.
The girl stepped closer. "I'm Lady Cressida. Daughter of the Minister of Trade. You're the Star-Blessed, aren't you?"
"I'm just Lyra."
Cressida tilted her head. "That's not what the court says. They think you're a chosen one. A celestial sign."
"Let them think what they want," Lyra said, her voice low.
Cressida arched an eyebrow. "You'll have to learn the rules here. People like you don't get to choose what others believe."
She started to walk away, then paused. "You're either a symbol they'll raise up… or a threat they'll burn down. Pick quickly."
---
That night, Lyra couldn't sleep.
She sat by the window, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the moon rise over the city beyond the palace walls. The stars blinked cold and distant.
The golden room around her glowed with candlelight, but none of it warmed her.
She remembered the first time she had touched dough with her mother. How proud she had been to braid the top of a honey loaf. The feeling of creating something with her own hands. The laughter when Mira accidentally spilled flour on Theo's head.
None of that belonged here.
Here, everything was pre-written, rehearsed, and controlled. She was being sculpted into something—someone—she never asked to become.
And yet…
Some part of her knew this path wasn't accidental.
The visions, the voice in her dreams, the power she had felt beneath her skin… they were part of her. She just didn't know how.
Or why.
---
The following morning, during a dull geography briefing, a servant appeared at the door and whispered something to the instructor.
The man turned to Lyra. "You're summoned to the Council Hall. Immediately."
Her stomach dropped.
She stood, brushed down her dress, and followed the servant down the winding halls.
When they reached the Council Hall, she found a circle of stone chairs occupied by men and women in deep royal robes. At the head of the circle sat King Alaric, his expression unreadable.
"Lyra of Eldoria," he said calmly. "Come forward."
She stepped into the center, her heart pounding.
A man she recognized from the previous banquet—Lord Halden, Minister of Defense—stood. "We have questions regarding your presence, your identity, and your… abilities."
Lyra tried to keep her voice steady. "I don't know what I am. I only know I didn't choose this."
Whispers erupted around the chamber.
King Alaric raised a hand. "Then it's time we find out the truth. Tomorrow, the royal mage will conduct a Binding Test. Your spirit will be examined for traces of divine essence."
Lyra's breath caught.
"The results will determine your future in this court," the king finished.
"And if I fail?" she asked.
No one answered.