The council chamber, nestled within the eastern wing of the palace, was a room of authority and shadow.
Its walls, lined with ancient maps and gold-inlaid sigils, had borne witness to centuries of decisions—both noble and damning. Today, it would bear witness again.
King Alaric sat at the head of the long obsidian table, his fingers steepled, his gaze unreadable. Around him, his trusted advisors had gathered. And yet trust felt thinner than parchment this morning.
The binding test had shaken something loose—something that could not be easily named.
"Let us begin," the king said.
---
Lord Halden was the first to speak. As always.
"With respect, Your Majesty, the girl is a threat."
He rose, robes swishing around his legs like a storm cloud.
"She is no mere commoner. That much is now clear. But what she is—we do not know. And that ignorance is dangerous."
Minister Yseult leaned back in her chair, lips curved in a half-smile. "So knowledge becomes her crime now?"
Halden ignored her. "We brought a stranger into our walls. And now we find she has divine essence? Power sealed within her? Who sealed it, and why? What is she capable of when it breaks?"
The High Mage, seated to the king's left, tapped his staff once against the floor. "The Binding Test revealed traces of celestial energy, yes. But it is fractured, unstable. That suggests... manipulation."
"Manipulation from where?" the king asked.
The mage hesitated. "From a source outside this realm."
A quiet settled over the room like falling ash.
---
Lord Caelum, the royal strategist, broke the silence.
"We must consider the political weight of this. Word is already spreading. The people are curious. Some are afraid. Others…" He paused. "Some whisper of prophecy."
The king frowned. "What prophecy?"
"There are old verses," Caelum said carefully. "Of a star-born woman cast from the heavens. A harbinger of change."
Halden scoffed. "Fairy tales."
"And yet, here she is," Yseult murmured. "The star-born girl in flesh and breath."
---
The Arch-Priestess rose.
She had not spoken since the test. Her silence had weighed heavier than any opinion.
"I felt... something during the Binding," she said softly. "Not evil. Not malicious. But veiled. Like looking through water at a light you can't quite reach."
"She's hiding something," Halden muttered.
The priestess looked at him. "Or something is hiding her."
---
A servant entered quietly and placed a sealed scroll before the king. Alaric opened it, scanned the message, and then let out a slow breath.
"She has requested an audience," he said. "She wishes to speak on her own behalf."
"You cannot grant it!" Halden barked. "To allow a girl—divine or not—into the war room is—"
"—a sign of trust," Yseult interrupted. "Which we sorely lack."
Alaric looked down the table. "She will speak. Tomorrow at dawn."
---
Meanwhile, Lyra stood alone in the palace library.
She hadn't been invited into the council chamber—but she could feel the tension in the air, taste it in the silence of the corridors. No one would tell her anything directly. They never did.
So she had taken matters into her own hands.
Ancient tomes lined the towering shelves. Scrolls yellowed with age, bound in faded twine. She found one that looked familiar—its cover marked with the symbol she'd seen glowing beneath her feet during the Binding Test.
She opened it carefully.
The text was written in high celestial script—yet somehow, she understood.
"When the divine forgets itself, the world remembers. When the light is veiled, the shadows stir."
The words sent a shiver down her spine.
She turned the page and found an illustration: a woman with stars in her hair falling from a golden city into a field of wheat.
And beneath it, a phrase etched in red ink:
"Beware the goddess who becomes bread."
---
That night, the palace pulsed with whispers again.
"She's to face the council?"
"They'll exile her."
"No, they'll use her."
"She's a pawn."
"Or a queen."
Lyra stood on the balcony of her chamber, staring down at the darkened courtyards. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
She pressed a hand to her chest.
What am I?
No answer came.
---
When morning came, the council chamber filled again.
Lyra entered, flanked by two silent guards. She wore a simple gown—one of soft violet, no embroidery, no jewels.
She walked to the center of the chamber and faced the king.
He studied her for a long moment.
"You requested to speak," Alaric said. "So speak."
Lyra took a breath.
"I didn't ask to come here," she began. "I didn't know who I was—or what I might be. But I know what I've done. I've helped where I could. I've answered when asked. And I've told no lies."
Halden cut in, voice sharp. "Then what are you, girl?"
"I don't know," she said. "But I'm not your enemy."
The Arch-Priestess leaned forward. "Then what do you want?"
"To live," Lyra said quietly. "To find the truth of myself. Not in secret. Not in exile. Here. In the open."
Yseult smiled faintly.
"She speaks with more honesty than half this table," she said.
Halden growled, "She speaks with danger behind every word."
"And yet," Alaric said, "she speaks."
---
There was silence.
Then the king rose.
"Until we know more, she will remain under palace watch. She is not a prisoner—but nor is she free to roam."
Lyra's fists clenched slightly, but she nodded.
"One more thing," Alaric added.
He turned to his scribe.
"Begin preparations for the Celestial Archive to be reopened. The answers we seek may lie buried in history."
The High Mage stiffened. "That archive is sealed for a reason—"
"And I unseal it for a reason," the king said firmly.
---
When Lyra left the chamber, she didn't feel victory.
She felt... suspended.
Held above a chasm, not knowing which way she might fall.
The gods had sent her here.
But the humans would decide whether she stayed.