The first thing she noticed was the smell.
Smoke. Sweat. Iron.
But not the acrid scent of burning flesh—no, this wasn't the pyre. This was something else.
This was life.
Lyra Vellorin gasped awake, air flooding her lungs like broken glass. Her body jolted, arching off the bed as if she were still inside the fire—still screaming, still burning, still waiting for someone—anyone—to pull her out.
But there had been no rescue. No last-minute pardon. No miracle.
There had only been flames.
And silence.
Now, she sat upright in a room too familiar, too cruel in its beauty. Velvet drapes filtered soft morning light through tall arched windows. Her dressing mirror gleamed from the far wall. A fire crackled softly in the hearth. And beside her bed—
A rose.
Fresh. Crimson. Thorned.
Her heart seized.
She knew that flower.
Caelum always sent one before a public appearance. It was his little ritual. A gesture. A warning.
You're mine. Remember that. Smile for the court. Play your part.
Her fingers trembled as they reached for the stem. She expected pain, but the thorns didn't bite. Not this time. The bloom was real. She was real.
"Three months," she whispered, voice dry and cracked. "Gods. It worked."
She laughed—hoarse and raw—like the sound had to claw its way out of her lungs. She was back. She was actually back.
Three months before the fire. Before the trial. Before Caelum condemned her with silence, and Evelyne watched with dry eyes.
The gods had taken her life. But now, they'd returned it.
Only this time… Lyra would not be quiet.
The woman staring back from the mirror wasn't the same girl who burned.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent beneath her nightdress, but her eyes—they were wrong. Too sharp. Too knowing. A shade darker, like the flames had left something behind. Like her soul had scorched and smoldered but refused to turn to ash.
She touched the glass. Her reflection didn't flinch.
A knock split the silence.
She turned. The door creaked open, revealing a maid—small, nervous, in House Vellorin colors.
"Good morning, Lady Lyra," she said. "Your husband is waiting in the garden."
Lyra blinked. "Husband?"
"Lord Caelum. He said to remind you about the ambassador's visit. You're to attend, of course."
Of course.
Of course.
Lyra smiled—slow and soft and sharp.
"Tell him I'll be there shortly."
The maid nodded and scurried away.
And just like that, the performance began.
The garden was in full bloom, as if mocking her with its splendor. Roses climbed the trellises. Pale blossoms unfurled beneath golden sun. Somewhere, a fountain babbled like laughter.
Caelum stood near the edge of the path, back straight, posture perfect. His bronze hair glinted in the light. His smile was easy, charming. The kind of smile that could convince a girl to wed him, even if his eyes belonged to someone else.
Even if his heart never did.
Lyra knew better now.
She walked slowly, each step deliberate. Her gown brushed the gravel. Her breath stayed calm. But inside—beneath ribs and bone and memory—she was a storm in the shape of a woman.
"Lyra," he said, the name rolling off his tongue like silk. "You look radiant this morning."
Radiant. Not beautiful. Not mine.
Not even real.
She tilted her head. "And you look exactly the same."
He laughed, as if she'd meant it as a compliment. "The ambassador arrives at noon. Father wants us on the terrace by then. Evelyne will be there too."
Evelyne.
Her smile almost cracked.
"How delightful."
Caelum looked at her—really looked. There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Caution? Curiosity?
"Is something wrong?"
Yes. Everything.
But Lyra only brushed past him, trailing her fingers along a thorned vine. "No, my lord. Nothing at all."
Let him wonder. Let him doubt.
Let him fall apart before he ever saw the dagger coming.
That night, she didn't sleep.
She sat at her desk, quill in hand, ink staining her fingers like dried blood. One letter. One name. One chance.
> To His Royal Highness, Prince Thorne of the Southern Wastes—
Her handwriting was steady. Her offer, clear:
A proposal of marriage. One year only. No love, no loyalty, only mutual gain. I offer you the political leverage of House Vellorin. In return, I ask for protection, alliance… and your name.
She paused.
Then added:
I do not lie. And I will not break. Should you choose to respond, send no sigils. Only fire.
She sealed it with black wax and pressed her crest into it—the crest of a dead girl reborn.
By morning, the letter would be gone.
And Lyra Vellorin would never beg again.