The knock came just past midnight.
Lyra sat up in bed, heart racing. The heavy silence of the palace had lulled her into uneasy sleep, but this—this sound—was not part of any dream.
Another knock.
Soft, deliberate.
She rose and moved toward the door. "Who is it?"
No answer.
She waited a moment longer. Then, slowly, she opened it.
Nothing. Just the hallway, flickering torchlight, and a folded piece of parchment on the floor.
She picked it up.
"You were not meant to return. Leave before the stars do."
There was no signature. No seal. Only the faint scent of lavender and iron.
Her hands trembled.
---
The next morning, Lyra stood in front of the High Mage in the library chamber.
He examined the note through a prism, muttering arcane syllables under his breath.
"Enchanted ink," he said at last. "Masked by sleep-scent to delay discovery."
"Do you know who sent it?" Lyra asked.
"No. But someone within the palace walls. Likely someone who fears what you are—or what you might become."
Lyra's fists clenched. "Why would someone threaten me? I haven't done anything."
"Not yet," the High Mage replied gravely. "But prophecy breeds fear. And fear—breeds knives."
---
Across the palace, King Alaric stared down at the message.
His expression was unreadable.
Beside him, Yseult paced slowly. "You realize what this means."
"Someone within the court wants her gone," Alaric said.
"Or worse," she added.
He nodded. "Double the guard near her chambers. Quietly. I want no panic."
"And if it's one of the guards?"
"Then may the gods help us all."
---
The palace buzzed with rumors.
Servants exchanged glances. Nobles whispered behind fans and goblets. No one said Lyra's name aloud, but everyone knew.
The girl who glowed. The girl who remembered stars.
"She's a threat to order," hissed Lord Halden in a private meeting. "You saw the way the people looked at her. Reverence breeds rebellion."
Yseult narrowed her eyes. "Or hope."
"Hope is just rebellion without weapons."
Alaric's voice cut through the tension.
"She is under my protection."
Halden bowed stiffly. "Until she no longer needs yours."
---
That evening, Lyra wandered the palace gardens. The air smelled of jasmine and pine. Moonlight turned the marble paths into rivers of silver.
She sat by the koi pond, watching the ripples, trying to still her thoughts.
A twig snapped behind her.
She turned.
Nothing but shadows.
She rose cautiously, heart beating faster. "Who's there?"
Still nothing.
She stepped backward—just as a blade flashed in the darkness.
A masked figure lunged, dagger aimed at her throat.
Instinct took over.
She raised her hand—light burst forth, blinding and white.
The attacker screamed, staggering backward, clutching his eyes.
Guards rushed in seconds later, drawn by the light.
"Seize him!" shouted the captain.
Steel clashed, a brief struggle—and then the assassin lay unconscious at their feet.
Lyra stood frozen, her hand still glowing faintly.
---
Later, in the dungeons, the hood was ripped from the attacker's head.
Gasps rang out.
It was one of the kitchen boys. Seventeen. Barely grown.
The captain growled, "Who sent you?"
He spat. "The stars will not burn again. You don't know what she is."
The High Mage stepped forward. "Explain."
"She is a curse," the boy hissed. "She was cast down for a reason. If you let her stay, she will bring the fire back."
"Who told you this?"
But the boy only closed his eyes.
And began to chant.
The guards tried to stop him—but too late.
A flash of violet flame consumed him.
When it cleared, there was only ash.
---
Back in her room, Lyra stared at her glowing palm.
She felt no triumph. Only cold.
Someone had tried to kill her.
And someone else had taught that boy magic dark enough to burn himself away.
She sat on the floor, curled into herself.
She didn't cry.
She just whispered,
"Why?"
---
At dawn, the council gathered again.
"He was part of a cult," said the High Mage. "Small. Hidden. Possibly old."
"How old?" asked Caelum.
"Older than the kingdom."
Halden crossed his arms. "This is what happens when we meddle with divine bloodlines."
"She is divine blood," Yseult said firmly. "Which means we must protect her."
"Or send her away."
Alaric's voice broke through the argument. "She stays. But we are no longer reacting. We act."
The others fell silent.
"Double security," he continued. "Wards around her chamber. And I want every noble house investigated."
"What will you tell the court?" asked Yseult.
"The truth," said Alaric. "And nothing more."
---
That night, Lyra walked the halls again, now shadowed by two guards at all times.
She passed mirrors that shimmered oddly as she walked.
She passed nobles who bowed—but did not smile.
She passed doors that did not open.
In the great gallery, she paused to look at a painting—an ancient one, faded by time.
It showed a woman standing atop a mountain of fire, arms raised to the sky. Wings of gold blazed behind her.
Below, people bowed in both awe and terror.
The plaque beneath read:
"The Flame That Walks."
Her heart beat faster.
She felt the echo in her bones.
She turned to the guard. "Who painted this?"
"No one knows," the man said. "It's been here since before the royal line began."
---
Back in her chamber, Lyra found another note on her pillow.
But this one bore the royal seal.
"If you remember, do not be afraid.
If you do not, let us help you remember.
We are watching.
We are waiting."
There was no name.
Only a symbol: a winged eye inside a circle.
And beneath it, three words:
"You are fire."