Chapter Six · The Fractured Crown

After a quiet, candlelit supper with the High Lord, Lyra returned to her chamber with her mother. The windows stood open to the moonlight. This had once been the Queen’s private chamber, before she married King Eryndar.

Curled beneath a thick feather blanket, Lyra shifted from side to side.

Something about the day still lingered in her. She could not sleep.

The Queen sat by the window, playing a low, lingering melody on her softly glowing ocarina. When Lyra was younger, she used to play it to lull her to sleep.

Lyra watched the moonlight spill across the room. Her thoughts drifted.

I wish I could stay here forever. No expectations. No watching eyes.

But tomorrow, we have to go back to the palace.

The melody faded into silence.

Then Lyra remembered her mother’s promise. She sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“You said you would tell me about the seal.”

The Queen lowered the ocarina and remained silent for a moment before speaking.

“You were foretold to inherit the strongest magic in the kingdom. But even before you were born, it was sealed.”

“Before I was born?”

Lyra pushed the blanket aside and moved closer.

“Who did that? Why?”

The Queen looked at her, but her gaze drifted somewhere farther away.

“I don’t know. But whoever did it understood what your magic would mean for the throne.”

She took Lyra’s left hand.

“What happened at the Umbral Tower that night... it may have fractured part of the seal.”

Lyra frowned.

“Is that why Grandfather tested me soon after I arrived here?”

“Yes.”

“Will I ever regain all of it?”

“Perhaps.”

The Queen paused.

“But that matters less than whether you can find peace while walking the path of power.”

A slow breath left her.

She said nothing more. She only raised the ocarina and began to play again.

Lyra did not fully understand what her mother meant.

Still, something cold tightened low in her stomach.

Whoever had sealed her magic had marked her as an enemy before she had even drawn breath.

The path of power.

Those words lingered in her thoughts.

The Silent Beast’s voice came back to her.

A restless unease began to spread.

Lyra stood and walked toward the door.

“I’m going outside for a while.”

The Queen did not answer. She remained by the window, lost in the melody she loved.

Moments later, Lyra stepped out onto the high balcony of the Citadel.

On this side, there was no moon. Only stars. Far below, Lake Lyrenthis glimmered faintly in the dark.

She missed the palace. Obewich. Her father.

The beast said he was cruel. He isn’t...

Aethrador imprisoned it. It called him a liar.

The pieces would not settle. Who was telling the truth?

“Not asleep yet?”

A cloak settled over her shoulders from behind.

“Grandfather.”

“It gets cold up here at night,” the High Lord said, standing beside her, his gaze fixed on the distance. “You should always wear a cloak.”

She looked up at him—at the silver of his hair, the line of his beard. He had lived in the same era as Aethrador. If anyone knew something, it would be him.

She studied him a moment too long, hesitation holding her back.

“Is there something you want to ask?” he said.

“Yes...”

“About what?”

“...Do you know anything about the Silent Beast in the palace? The one with its mouth sewn shut?”

The High Lord raised a brow. “And why would you ask about that?”

Lyra lowered her gaze. “I can speak with it. It told me some things... I don’t know if I should believe them.”

“What did it say?”

She went quiet. For a moment, she almost let it go, but he was still watching her.

She spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It said... Aethrador... is a liar.”

“Is that so?”

The High Lord did not look surprised. It was not the way she had expected him to react.

Above them, the stars flickered—countless, impossible to number.

The High Lord tilted his head toward the sky. “There are as many secrets in this world as there are stars,” he said. “Learn one, and another will reveal itself.”

His gaze returned to her.

“Some truths are harder to carry than any wound.”

A beat.

“If you are not afraid of the truth... then come with me.”

He turned and started toward the corridor.

Lyra paused, slightly puzzled.

I’m not sure.

But I want to know.

Even if it breaks me.

Then she hurried after him. “Grandfather, wait.”

The corridor curved around a broad semicircular hall, with evenly spaced arches opening along the curved wall. At its center stood a large candelabrum, the candles casting a steady glow.

Across the hall, a stone chamber door was set into the wall. At its center, a green glow gathered into the shape of a many-petaled flower.

The High Lord placed his right palm at the center of the pattern. The door trembled, then began to open.

As it parted, torchlight flared to life within, filling the room.

The High Lord stepped inside. Lyra followed.

The chamber opened into quiet order, rows of chests set upon low stone pedestals, arranged with deliberate care. Each bore a distinct seal, faintly aglow, as if preserving something once named.

The High Lord remained silent. He walked to a small chest sealed with a triangular piece of silver armor.

Lyra leaned forward to watch.

What does Grandfather want to show me?

He placed the chest on the central table, then removed the piece of armor. Torchlight flickered across the silver.

Lyra’s gaze lingered on it.

“This... looks familiar.”

She had seen it somewhere before, but she could not place it.

“Open it,” the High Lord said.

She unfastened the clasp and lifted the lid.

Inside, on dark red cloth, lay a curved claw, dark and razor-edged, its surface nicked and scored.

“It belonged to Ravok,” the High Lord said. “Aethrador’s dragon champion in the Great War of the Fae.”

“Ravok? The Champion?”

She stared at the claw, trying to bring the memory into focus.

The words of praise from the epic she had read came back to her.

A faint vibration stirred around the claw, and with it came the image of black thread drawn through flesh.

Something tightened in her chest as recognition settled.

“This... is the Silent Beast.”

“Yes.”

“But its mouth was sewn shut,” she said, her voice unsteady.

The High Lord’s gaze fell to the claw. A shadow crossed his eyes.

“Aethrador himself gave the order. An Aulith mage stitched its mouth shut with enchanted black thread.”

Lyra’s heart began to pound. Her fingers clenched.

“Why? Ravok helped him. Ravok was praised everywhere.”

The High Lord clasped his hands behind his back. He turned away, his gaze drifting over the rows of chests.

“Because Ravok knew more than he was meant to,” the High Lord said.

A pause.

“Truths Aethrador tried to bury... or twist.”

“Impossible.
Aethrador was always revered as a righteous man. A man who stood for justice. How could he?”

Silence stretched.

The High Lord did not turn back.

“If too many see that the foundation has been worn away, the tower above cannot stand.”

Her throat tightened. Something in her chest cracked.

A quiet breath left him.

“Reverence... is not always deserved.”

“Then what have I believed all this time?”

Lyra sank to the floor. She couldn’t speak.

So the beast... had not been lying.

The thought would not settle.

She had always admired Aethrador.

She had wanted to be like him.

And now...

Her hands tightened in the fabric of her dress.

This feels wrong.

Nothing could justify this.

Ravok only knew the truth. No one deserved what they did to him.

The High Lord turned to her, his eyes thoughtful.

He stepped closer and helped Lyra to her feet. His voice was gentle.

“It’s late. Get some rest. You have to rise early tomorrow.”

Lyra nodded faintly, her eyes unfocused.

He led her back to her room.

The Queen was already asleep.

Lyra lay awake late into the night, staring out the window. The moon had long since slipped from view, leaving only darkness.

She lay still, hardly daring to move, afraid of waking her mother.

Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the curved claw resting on dark cloth. The sewn mouth. The statue of Aethrador in the Royal Hall.

At some point, the candles in the chamber died completely.

Eventually, exhaustion overcame her, and she drifted into a restless sleep.

When she opened her eyes again, pale morning light had entered the room.

Her mother was already gone.

She pushed herself upright and made her way down to the courtyard, where the royal carriages stood ready, loaded with tribute and gifts from Sonareth. She stopped beside them, lingering for one last look at the Citadel and the valley spread out around it.

Everything had passed so quickly. She was no longer the princess she had been when she first left the palace.

Perhaps when I return, I should apologize to Ravok.

Farther away, near the edge of the courtyard, the Queen stood with the High Lord beneath a cherry blossom tree.

“Take care, Father,” she whispered. “I will visit you when I have the chance.”

The High Lord embraced his daughter, his arms tightening for a moment before he released her.

“Keep an eye on anyone who might be targeting her,” he said.

The Queen bowed her head slightly.

“I am still troubled by what happened in the Lonely Forest all those years ago. If I hadn’t been so careless in trusting someone, then Lyra...”

The High Lord gently placed a hand on her forehead and shook his head.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She embraced him once more, then they walked back toward the waiting carriages.

The Queen climbed into one and took her seat, while the High Lord stopped in front of Lyra.

“My dear granddaughter,” he said.

Lyra looked up at him. “Yes, Grandfather.”

He held out a familiar object.

Voxath.

Lyra took it. It caught the light and trembled faintly in her hand.

Her eyes were heavy from a restless night, but they brightened the moment she saw it.

“I’ll take good care of it. Thank you,” she said, holding it close.

The High Lord studied her for a moment before speaking.

“It can dissolve the spells of Aulith thread. Only Sonareth folk can hear its true note.”

Lyra’s eyes widened. She went still.

He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You’ve heard. Now learn to decide.”

She could only stare. No words came.

From inside the carriage, the Queen gestured for her to get in.

Lyra climbed inside and settled beside her mother but left the curtain raised.

As the carriage began to move, she leaned toward the window, keeping her eyes on her grandfather.

The High Lord remained in the courtyard, his silver cloak stirring gently in the wind.

“Learn to protect yourself.” His voice carried after her.

The carriage rolled on as harps and flutes rose from the guard, bright and full, their music gliding over the rocks and lake and merging with the wind.

Lyra stayed by the window, looking back.

Only when the Citadel began to shrink in the distance did she finally draw back inside.

Beside her, the Queen closed her eyes.

She hummed softly, the sound drifting back toward the High Lord.

Beneath the melody, something without words carried on the air.

Didn’t you fear she would unleash the beast?

Another melody, low and steady, came from the courtyard.

Justice has its reasons.

Lyra sat quietly, one hand resting on Voxath as her gaze drifted into the distance.

She noticed none of the exchange.

She did not know how she would face Aethrador’s statue when she returned to the palace.

He had ended the war. He had brought peace.

And yet he had betrayed Ravok, who had fought beside him.

Was there something she did not understand?

Or would anyone in his place have done the same?

No answer came. Not one that felt right.

And she could not force one.