Chapter 4

Another day passed. Only twelve nights remained until the Crimson Eclipse.

Lyra returned to her small tower. The first thing she said as she crossed the threshold was:

“Hazel. Light the hearth.”

When the fire caught, orange light climbed the walls, illuminating the things she had once clung to as proof—proof that she had been chosen.

The ivory dress meant for her Mate Oath ceremony with Cassian .

The portrait on the wall—her looking back from the edge of mist-shrouded woods, as if still believing someone would come to bring her home.

On the dressing table, a few small trinkets:

A ring engraved with the Ashford crest.

A bracelet of darkened silver links.

A locket of smoky glass sealed with a single drop of Cassian’s blood—an old pack custom meant to anchor his scent to her skin .

Gifts from Cassian.

Each, hard-won.

The ring, painstakingly fashioned by his own hands after his coming-of-age, his fingers raw and bleeding from the work.

The bracelet, traded for with three sacks of coin at a hunter bazaar because he’d heard it offered protection.

The locket, a Council reward for valor, which he nearly died obtaining during a border skirmish.

The city had once whispered—Cassian Ashford was madly in love with Lyra Vale.

Once, Lyra had believed it.

But the man capable of that madness was gone.

“The fire is ready, my lady.” Hazel placed a black iron brazier before her, eyes red-rimmed. “My lady… you cherish that portrait. You look at it every night. Why burn it?”

Lyra didn’t answer.

She walked to the wall, took down the portrait, and without hesitation cast it into the flames.

As the paper curled and blackened, she was pulled back to her fifteenth year—her Coming-of-Age.

Cassian had presented the portrait then, his gaze holding her like she was the only light he needed.

“Lyra,” he’d said, “you’re of age now. Will you be my future Luna?”

It was the last time he’d spoken of bonding with her as if he meant it.

The fire ate the painted smile.

Lyra’s voice was soft.

“The betrothal is void.”

“Keeping these makes me a joke.”

Hazel moved to retrieve the portrait, but Lyra stopped her.

“Burn what can be burned.”

“Sell what cannot.”

She looked at Hazel, and for the first time in days, her tone carried a shred of warmth.

“I’ll be leaving this world.”

“But you must live.”

Hazel’s tears fell freely as she nodded, fierce and broken.

At dawn, Lyra went as usual to the main house to pay her respects.

The silverthorn welts on her back were still raw, a persistent, nail-like pain anchoring itself in her chest.

Every step felt like walking on blades.

In the corridor, she met Cassian.

He stood at the far end, tall and straight, his demeanor cool and distant.

The face that once promised safety now radiated only pressure.

Seeing her pallor, Cassian’s brow furrowed. He stepped forward, reaching for her cold hand.

“Lyra. You’re pale. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lyra withdrew her hand. “A restless night.”

He didn’t press, as if her suffering were merely a mood.

He stated his purpose.

“Today is the anniversary of my mother’s passing.”

“I came to take you to the Ashford family crypt.”

On a fixed day each month, Lyra had accompanied him to pay homage.

His mother had despised her in life—had even said, “If Lyra Vale ever crosses the Ashford threshold, I’ll never know peace in death.”

Cassian had once defied his mother’s dying wish for Lyra.

So Lyra had gone, month after month, seeking an acceptance that would never come.

Now, everything had changed.

Lyra met his gaze, her voice frighteningly calm.

“I won’t accompany you again.”

“Your intended Luna is Serena Vale.”

Cassian’s frown deepened, genuine irritation flaring.

“Lyra, must you be so petty?”

“Must you compete with Serena for everything, even this?”

“Is my mother’s approval so vital to you?”

Petty.

Lyra almost laughed.

She opened her mouth to answer—but a coppery taste flooded her throat.

Instinctively, she pressed a handkerchief to her lips.

When she pulled it away, stark against the white linen was a vivid splash of crimson.

Blood.