Chapter 3

Lyra held the empty tin cup, her fingers trembling faintly from the lingering sting of silverthorn.

She turned slowly to face Cassian.

For a moment, she doubted her own hearing.

“What did you just say?”

Cassian’s expression held no guilt, no apology.

He drew her aside, away from the grateful eyes, into the shadow beneath the archway. His voice was low, the tone one used to placate someone being unreasonable.

“Lyra, don’t make a scene.”

“Serena has only thirteen nights left.”

He avoided the word die, as if naming it would make it real.

But the utter rightness in his eyes cut deeper than any confession.

“Your mother sends you here to gather blessings for her.”

“Letting Serena take the credit… it’s a small thing. Don’t quarrel with her over it, understand?”

At the word quarrel, something split open in Lyra’s chest.

“A small thing?” A short laugh left her—cold as frost on glass. “Last time, you asked me not to contend with her for the Mate Oath that was rightfully mine .”

“This time, you ask me not to contend for the credit of my own deeds.”

Her voice was hoarse, scraped raw.

“What next?”

“Will you ask for my face, my name, my very self—so you can hand them to her too?”

Cassian’s brow tightened, a flash of impatience finally breaking through his controlled facade.

“Lyra.”

His voice hardened, taking on the weight of command.

“You have always been the understanding one.”

“You can’t bear for her to leave with regrets.”

“Thirteen nights. Be patient a little longer.”

He reached for her wrist, as if to press her back into her role as the dutiful, obedient bride-to-be.

Lyra recoiled a step, evading his grasp.

She looked at him, eyes dry, holding only a slow-cooling disappointment.

“I’ve told you—again and again—Serena will not die.”

“The nightmares, the callings she claims to hear… they are not hers.”

Cassian’s gaze turned to ice.

“Enough.” The word was a sharp whisper. “Stop saying that.”

“To speak like this now sounds like a curse upon her.”

Lyra gave a small nod.

“So, in your eyes, even my truth is a sin.”

She turned and walked back to the relief station, continuing to ladle out the warm broth.

Her movements remained measured, her voice calm.

But the hand holding the ladle shook uncontrollably.

By the time the charity work ended, night had fully descended.

The old city streets were damp and cold, carriage wheels grinding over cobblestone like something heavy being dragged across her heart.

Lyra leaned back in the carriage and closed her eyes, but found no peace.

She remembered the voice from the Underworld that had spoken to her in childhood dreams:

“Your mercy among the living is recorded in the Moon Ledger .”

“Those who receive your grace will answer with candlelight and prayer.”

“When you return to your station, you will possess your own protection.”

But tonight, Cassian had spoken Serena’s name out loud—publicly, calmly—like it was fact.

The Underworld was not blind.

The Reaper did not misfile names.

One who performed no good deed yet reaped its spiritual reward—

in the oldest laws of the wolves, that was called blessing-theft .

Stolen blessings breed backlash.

Stolen blessings shave nights off a wolf’s life .

Lyra pressed a hand to her chest, where a pain bloomed—hollow and sharp—as if unseen claws were scraping her insides clean.

When she returned to the Vale estate, out of ingrained habit more than hope, her feet carried her toward the main house.

But at the threshold, she stopped.

Laughter spilled from within.

Her father’s. Her mother’s. Serena’s.

It was a dull blade, slowly sawing through her composure.

She stood outside, uncertain whether to enter.

Then her mother’s voice shifted, heavy with staged sorrow.

“Serena… I fear we have so few nights left like this.”

Serena’s voice hitched with a sob. “Mother, I don’t want to die… I want to stay with you.”

Her mother began to weep as if the world were ending. “Moon Mother, why must you take my most beloved child!”

My most beloved child.

Lyra stood in the corridor, the draft chilling her to the bone.

Then she heard Serena ask their father through tears, “Father, you sit on the Council… is there nothing to be done?”

“To let me stay… by your side.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then her father’s voice, grave and thick with pain, answered.

“The Seer spoke true—my fate is to lose a daughter.”

He paused, the words seeming to cost him dearly.

“I went to the old Moon Shrine .”

“I knelt for seven nights.”

“If fate demands I lose one… Serena, I prayed it would not be you.”

Lyra did not shatter.

Not immediately.

She only felt something inside her—something that had held her upright for years—crumble into dust.

The smile that touched her lips was silent, a private verdict.

“Father…”

“In twelve nights, you’ll have your wish.”

She turned and walked away, her steps leaving no sound, as if she had never been there at all.