The hall emptied slowly after breakfast, courtiers drifting away in hushed clusters, their whispers trailing like smoke. Lilith lingered only long enough to savor her small victory — the crack she had driven into the morning's peace — before sweeping out with a satisfied rustle of silk.
Lyra stayed at her side.
Her silence was not retreat but a shield — a quiet, immovable barrier drawn between Selene and the world.
At last, Lyra touched Selene's shoulder. Her voice was soft but steady.
"Come."
They walked through the castle halls, morning light falling through stained glass in fractured mosaics of crimson and gold. Selene followed in measured steps, though her thoughts drifted in restless waves.
Finally, they reached the library doors.
Selene hesitated. The memory of the fallen book — Dianna's serene silver gaze staring up at her — lodged beneath her ribs like a secret she wasn't yet ready to claim. And then, unbidden, warmth bloomed across her cheeks as another memory rose: Lyra's lips brushing hers in that fleeting, stolen moment. The echo of it lingered, soft and dangerous, leaving her breath unsteady as she stood before the library doors.
Lyra pushed the doors open.
The cool air inside smelled of parchment and candlewax. Silence settled over them — the same heavy, expecting silence that had haunted the room the night before.
Selene followed her in, unable to resist the pull.
Lyra crossed to the tall windows, bracing her hands against the sill, shoulders rigid.
"Mother had no right," she said at last, voice low but edged with steel. "You are not nameless. You are not cursed. You are—"
Her breath faltered, as if the next words threatened to break her open.
Selene stepped closer. "I am what?"
Lyra turned.
For an instant, the world narrowed to the space between them. Morning sunlight carved sharp lines of gold across her face, illuminating the fierce tenderness in her eyes.
"You are Selene," Lyra murmured, her voice steady now. "And that is enough."
The words struck something deep — something old — inside Selene. Her chest tightened, not with pain but with recognition, as though a truth buried for ages had stirred in response.
The goddess's image flickered in her mind: Dianna, robed in silver, cradling the crescent moon.
A shiver slid down her spine.
"Do you believe in the gods?" Selene asked suddenly, surprising even herself.
Lyra tilted her head. "Yes. But battle leaves little room for prayer. Why?"
Selene's fingers curled at her sides. She wanted to speak of the strange, magnetic pull she had felt — the way Dianna's eyes had seemed to know her. But the words tangled, fragile.
"No reason," she whispered.
Lyra did not press her. Instead, she stepped closer — close enough for Selene to feel the warmth radiating from her armor.
"Whatever ghosts haunt you," Lyra said softly, "they are not chains. Not while I am here."
Selene's breath caught.
The way Lyra looked at her — protective, unwavering, almost reverent — made her heartbeat stumble.
Lyra leaned down, slow as breath, drawn to her as if by instinct—
But outside, a bell tolled in the courtyard, calling the council to gather. The sound shattered the stillness like a blade striking glass.
Lyra exhaled, grounding herself. She reached for her sword, letting the familiar weight settle her.
"Well," she said gently, "I'll see you later."
Selene should have let her go.
But something fierce and fragile rose inside her — something new, something brave.
Before Lyra could step away, Selene reached up and pressed her lips to Lyra's cheek.
A soft, fleeting kiss.
Barely a whisper of contact.
Yet it froze Lyra where she stood, breath suspended.
"Take care," Selene breathed — then fled into the archives before courage could desert her.
Inside the Archives
Selene closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, one hand flying to her burning cheek.
What have I done?
Her heartbeat refused to settle. It pounded in her ears like a drum, replaying the moment — her lips on Lyra's skin — in dizzying loops.
Heat flooded her face. She smoothed her skirts with trembling hands, trying to coax her pulse into something normal.
But she could still picture Lyra frozen in the corridor — sunlight on steel, shock widening her eyes, breath stolen clean from her chest.
Selene stepped deeper into the library, seeking refuge among the shelves. The scent of ink and old parchment grounded her. Light spilled across the floor in shifting gold as the sun climbed, illuminating the ancient tomes.
One book in particular called to her — the same one from last night.
She traced the worn spine, fingertips brushing the image of the moon goddess.
Something stirred.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Something older.
Like an echo returning home.
She drew the book close, breathing slowly as the world steadied around her.
Whatever awaited her — in these pages, in Lyra's gaze, in the strange destiny humming beneath her skin — she no longer felt afraid.
Not anymore.
Not with the warmth of Lyra's cheek still lingering on her lips.
The Corridor Outside
The library door closed with a soft thud.
Lyra didn't move.
She stood frozen in the silent corridor, one hand still half-raised as if Selene's touch lingered there — a ghost of warmth burning through skin and steel alike.
For a long, breathless moment, she could only stare at the door.
She kissed me.
Not formally.
Not accidentally.
A choice.
Selene had chosen her.
Lyra's heartbeat — the disciplined rhythm of a soldier — faltered, rising into something unsteady. Her breath hitched, caught between disbelief and a heat that spread beneath her armor.
She lifted her fingers to her cheek.
Heat blossomed there, bright and alive.
"Gods…" she whispered.
A general should not be undone by something so gentle. She had faced assassins with steadier breaths. She had stared down kings with dry palms.
But this—
This was a battlefield she had never trained for.
She inhaled, trying to steady herself, but the corridor felt too narrow, too full of the memory of Selene's soft touch.
Lyra leaned lightly against the stone wall.
Just for a moment.
Just to breathe.
Footsteps echoed. Shawn rounded the corner from the training courtyard.
"Lyra—there you are. What's taking so—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Lyra's flushed cheeks.
Her posture — rigid, defensive.
The shock still flickering in her eyes.
Shawn blinked slowly.
"…Are you—flustered?"
Lyra straightened instantly. Too fast. Too stiff.
"I am not," she said sharply. "It's warm in here."
Shawn glanced at the cold stone walls, a winter draft whistling through the archway.
"Right," he drawled. "Absolutely scorching."
Lyra gave him the glare that usually silenced entire battalions.
It only made Shawn's grin grow.
"What happened?" he asked, stepping closer with fox-like curiosity. "Something… involving Selene?"
Lyra's jaw tightened. "The council is waiting."
Shawn's grin sharpened. "You two kissed, didn't you?"
Lyra nearly choked.
Shawn laughed outright. "The great General Lyra of Oakhart, felled not by a blade, but by a shy girl's kiss."
Lyra took one step forward.
Slow. Deadly.
Shawn backed up immediately, hands raised in surrender, still laughing. "Alright, alright! I'll stop teasing. For now."
He turned, starting toward the training grounds — but looked back once more.
His smile softened. "It suits you, you know."
Lyra paused.
"What?"
"Being looked at… like that," Shawn said quietly. "You're different around her."
Lyra said nothing.
Couldn't.
Because he was right.
She was different.
And the warmth still glowing on her cheek told her exactly why.
With a steady breath, Lyra turned toward the training grounds. Duty called — strategy, alliances, threats at the borders.
But as she walked, her fingers brushed her cheek again.
A single thought pulsed with every heartbeat:
Selene kissed me.
And no amount of discipline could quiet the fire that truth had sparked.