The days that followed Lyra's awakening settled into a predictable, if unsettling, routine. Marta, ever the diligent servant and weary maternal figure, continued to attend to her needs, her eyes still holding that lingering, questioning gaze whenever Lyra's face remained impassive. Lyra, for her part, maintained the facade of a child recovering from a fall—quiet, a touch more withdrawn, but not enough to raise alarms. Yet beneath the surface, Elara's mind worked with ceaseless intensity.
She devoured the few dusty books in the library with a hunger that went beyond curiosity. In them, she pieced together not only the history and politics of this empire, but something far older: the mythology of Aura—the ethereal essence believed to flow through the world—and the legendary Swordmasters of old who wielded it like flame and lightning. Their names were etched in fading ink, almost forgotten, but their feats hinted at a mastery that transcended mere nobility.
The palace, she confirmed, was not entirely crumbling but heavily neglected—a grand relic whose vastness echoed with the whispers of past glory and present disrepair. And as Lyra read about the ancient arts, a strange warmth curled faintly in her fingertips. She stilled, blinked once, then closed the book. Something was awakening. Not fully, not yet. But a thread had been pulled.
She would find where it led.
One afternoon, driven by a restless curiosity to understand the full extent of the palace's decay, Lyra found herself wandering towards a dusty, open area behind the main stables – what she soon realized was the training grounds for the palace knights. The air here was thick with the scent of old leather and damp earth, a stark contrast to the musty grandeur of the palace interior.
She descended the grand, sweeping staircase – its marble chipped, its once-gilded banister tarnished – to the main courtyard. From there, a less-used path led her past crumbling outbuildings until she reached the training grounds. Ten figures stood in a loose formation, their armor dull, scuffed, and ill-fitting, their posture weary, almost defeated. They were knights, yes, but not the gleaming, formidable warriors of legend. Their surcoats were faded, their swords scabbarded in worn leather, many of the hilts wrapped in frayed cloth.
As she approached, their desultory practice ceased. They straightened, their movements stiff, a collective sigh of resignation seeming to ripple through their ranks. "My lady," their captain, a burly man with a grizzled beard and tired eyes, rumbled, his voice devoid of warmth, a mere formality. The other nine echoed him, a chorus of casual respect, but no friendliness. No warmth. No curiosity. It was the kind of deference given to a figurehead, a relic of a past era, not a person. Elara recognized it instantly: the politeness of obligation, not genuine regard. And yet, for the first time, she did not feel the need to chase anything more. She observed their reactions with cold clarity, her own mask perfectly in place.
But something flickered in the way they looked at her—subtle, confused. They had expected her to approach with the usual sweetness, with a simpering smile and carefully rehearsed flattery meant to please or earn favor. Instead, she merely nodded—barely a gesture—her face unreadable.
It unsettled them more than they cared to admit. A few exchanged quiet glances, uncertain. This was not the girl they thought they knew. Her silence now felt heavier than words. It wasn't aloofness; it was distance—deliberate and unfamiliar.
She spent a few minutes observing their sparse training area – a patch of uneven ground, worn bare in places, with a single, splintered wooden dummy leaning precariously. There were no elaborate weapon racks, no piles of practice swords, no targets for archery. Just the ten men, their faces etched with the weariness of forgotten soldiers, their movements slow and uninspired. She noticed the way they handled their swords, the slight hesitation, the overcompensation for dull edges or unbalanced weight. They were skilled, perhaps, but hampered by their equipment.
Later that day, as Lyra was examining a faded tapestry in her wing, her ears, sharpened by her new body and heightened awareness, caught the low murmur of voices from the courtyard below. It was the knights, their voices low, but carrying clearly in the quiet, echoing air of the palace.
"This is a joke," one grumbled, his voice rough, laced with bitter frustration. "Ten of us. Ten! To guard a crumbling pile of stones and a half-breed princess no one even cares about."
"Aye," another agreed, a younger voice, tinged with youthful disillusionment. "And with what? These rusty blades? My training sword broke weeks ago. I'm practicing with a broom handle! At this point, are we even part of the Fourth Order? We're supposed to be knights, sworn to protect, not glorified palace guards with broken sticks and empty promises."
"Training grounds smaller than a pigsty," the captain's gruff voice joined in, a heavy sigh audibles even from a distance. "No proper blunted swords, no targets. How are we supposed to keep our skills sharp? How are we supposed to defend anything if we can't even train properly? It's a disgrace, serving a house that can't even arm its own men."
"And for her," the first voice sneered, a note of bitter resentment sharpening his tone. "His Majesty and the princes as well as our princess Seraphina barely acknowledge her existence. What's the point? We're wasting our lives here, rotting away with this place."
"She's a child," another, slightly more sympathetic voice offered, though still distant, detached. "We at least need to do our job here."
"Neglected or not, she's still a half-breed, and a burden to the His Majesty," the first snapped back, his prejudice clear. "We're meant to protect the realm, not babysit a forgotten princess in a decaying palace, waiting for it all to fall apart."
Lyra listened, her expression unchanging. The words were familiar, the disdain, the dismissal, the casual cruelty. It was a mirror of her past life, only the setting had changed. Half-breed princess. Another label, another reason for scorn. But this time, it didn't sting with the same raw pain. Instead, a cold, hard thought began to form. They were right. They were neglected. Their loyalty, however casual, however begrudging, was still valuable. And they were without resources. A strategic weakness.
Just then, a commotion erupted in the main hall. Marta hurried into Lyra's room, her face flushed, a rare spark of excitement in her eyes. "My lady! A messenger from His Majesty! He has sent gifts!"
Moments later, two young maids, giggling nervously, entered carrying an armful of shimmering silks and fine fabrics. Dresses. Elaborate gowns in vibrant colors, embroidered with intricate patterns, clearly expensive and utterly impractical for life in a neglected palace. They were gifts, no doubt, a token gesture from her father, perhaps to quell any rumors of his daughter's neglect, or simply to rid himself of excess finery from the royal storerooms.
Lyra looked at the pile of luxurious dresses, then back at the window, her gaze drifting towards the small, dusty courtyard where the knights had been complaining. A cold, calculating gleam entered her eyes, a spark of Elara's corporate cunning merging with Lyra's newfound detachment. This wasn't about beauty or status. This was about assets.
"Marta," Lyra said, her voice calm and clear, startling the head servant, who was still admiring the silks. "These dresses. Are they truly mine to do with as I please?"
Marta blinked, surprised by the question, her expression shifting from admiration to confusion. "Why, yes, my lady. They are gifts from His Majesty."
"Good," Lyra stated, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching her lips. "Then I want to sell them."
Marta gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. "Sell them, my lady? But—"
"Yes," Lyra interrupted, her voice gaining a quiet authority that brooked no argument. "Every last one. Find the best merchants in the city. Get the highest price. And with the coin we gain, we will buy steel. Good steel. Swords. Armor. And proper wooden training blades for the knights." She paused, her gaze hardening. "And if there is coin left over, we will find a way to repair that training ground."
Marta stared, utterly dumbfounded. The cheerful, hopeful child she had known was gone. In her place was a young lady with an unnervingly blank face, and eyes that held the cold, calculating glint of someone who understood power, and how to acquire it, far better than any neglected princess should. Lyra had decided. Her priorities were clear. She would not seek love or acceptance. She would build her own strength, starting with the foundation of this decaying palace. And she would start by arming the few, weary souls who, however begrudgingly, stood between her and the wild, dangerous world outside.