Chapter Three – The Price of Silence
Lyra woke to shouting.
It wasn't unusual—Marva Vexley had two volumes: loud and louder—but this time, it was different. Sharper. Urgent.
She pushed off her thin blanket and crept toward the hallway. Mira was already peeking through the stair rail, dark eyes wide. From below, Garrin's voice slurred in drunken defense, and Marva's came like a whip in reply.
"You lost how much? Twenty silvers?! Do you know what I could've done with that?!"
"I'll win it back! Just one more game—"
"You'll win yourself a coffin!"
Glass shattered. A cup, maybe. Or the last bit of patience.
Lyra stepped back as Marva stormed upstairs, skirts swishing like angry storm clouds. She didn't even knock. Just flung open Lyra's door.
"You."
The word dropped like stone.
Lyra blinked. "Me?"
"You're going to the palace."
A pause.
"What?"
"I've arranged for you to work there. As a maid. You'll serve, clean, obey. And you'll send your wages back here."
"But—"
"Don't 'but' me." Marva's face was flushed. Her eyes gleamed with opportunity. "Do you have any idea what it costs to feed you? To clothe you? Your place is bought and paid for."
"I'm not a—slave."
Marva's hand struck fast. Lyra barely felt the sting—it was nothing compared to the ache inside her chest.
"You'll leave by dawn. The royal courier will escort you. Wear something decent."
---
They didn't say goodbye.
Garrin was passed out on the front porch. Zera and Zina were still sleeping off their party wine. Marva handed her a small bundle of clothes and a slip of parchment with "VEXLEY" scrawled in red ink. Mira watched from the window, eyes shining.
When Lyra turned to leave, Mira slipped out and hugged her fiercely.
"I'll write. I'll find a way to see you," Mira whispered.
"Don't get in trouble."
"You're the only good thing in this house. I'll find you one day."
Lyra wanted to cry. Instead, she walked.
---
The palace wasn't a place. It was a presence.
The stone walls rose like mountains, cold and pale beneath the gray sky. Guards flanked the wrought-iron gates. Carriages lined the entrance like jeweled serpents. Banners flew—deep red, with a silver sigil: a howling wolf beneath a seven-pointed star.
She entered through the servants' gate, escorted by a soldier with more armor than words. The moment she crossed the threshold, the air changed. Rich with incense and polished marble. Clean. Controlled. Terrifying.
A woman stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs—tall, sharp-shouldered, with hair coiled in a tight braid and eyes that could slice through silence.
"Lyra Wynthorne?" she asked, voice crisp as frost.
"Yes."
"I'm Madam Edda. Head of the maids. Speak only when asked. Work when told. And don't think because you're pretty that you're special."
Lyra bowed her head. "Yes, Madam."
She was handed a slate-gray uniform and a list of assigned duties: cleaning corridors, polishing stair rails, and sweeping the stables. The stables. She clung to that word. Horses didn't yell. Horses didn't lie.
Her room was a shared attic space with four other maids. No mirror. No privacy. But it didn't matter. She had a bed. She had air. She was out.
---
Her first week passed in blisters and bruises. The castle was a maze—marble floors, vaulted ceilings, chandeliers that hung like frozen constellations. The nobles rarely looked her way, but the guards did. Some with amusement. Some with more than that.
She scrubbed floors until her knees bled. Polished armor until she saw her hollow reflection in the breastplates.
And then—Pippa.
She stumbled into Lyra's path like sunshine on legs.
"Oh stars, you're the new one! Look at you—skin like milk, hair like moonlight, and oh my gosh, those eyes! I'm Pippa. Ginger. Loud. Unapologetic. Come on, let me show you where they actually keep the good biscuits."
Lyra blinked, stunned. "What?"
"You need friends here. Don't let the marble fool you, this place is full of snakes. But don't worry, I bite back."
---
That night, Lyra shared her first stolen pastry with Pippa under a stairwell, hiding from the kitchen staff.
Pippa told her everything:
How the seven princes were all "deadly, dreamy, and slightly cursed."
How the seventh prince was barely seen. "The one with the eyes like blood and hands like sin—that's what the girls say. I've only seen him once. He scared the life outta me. Gorgeous, though."
How she, Pippa, planned to marry any of the princes. Preferably two.
Lyra laughed for the first time in weeks.
But later, lying awake in her narrow bed, she wondered about the prince with blood-red eyes. Wondered if he was cruel like the nobles she'd known, or worse—kind in a way that made you ache.
She'd find out soon enough.
Because the stables awaited her.
And so did Kael Dravenhart.