Chapter 5

The blood on the linen looked like a light snuffed out.

Lyra staggered, her knees buckling.

“Lyra!” Cassian’s composure finally fractured. He surged forward, catching her shoulders and pulling her against him. “Get the healer—now!”

His palm pressed hard between her shoulder blades, the grip tight as if he could hold her bones together by force. The corridor erupted into chaos; servants scattered in every direction.

Hazel darted forward, face ashen. “I’ll fetch him, I’ll—”

Without another word, Cassian scooped Lyra into his arms and carried her swiftly back to her tower, laying her upon the bed.

He leaned over her, eyes holding a new, unfamiliar panic—not born of love, but of control slipping away.

“Why are you coughing blood?” he demanded, voice low and tense. “Are the silverthorn wounds from last night reopened? Did you neglect the salves again?”

Lyra clutched the stained handkerchief, knuckles bone-white. She remembered the voice from her dreams: as the Crimson Eclipse neared, her mortal vessel would weaken.

She had said it countless times.

No one listened.

So she only shook her head, her voice a faint whisper. “It’s nothing.”

The elder healer arrived quickly, smelling of crushed herbs and cold iron .

He leaned closer to examine her body.

“The whip marks on Silverthorn are festering,” he said in a low, heavy voice. “She is already very weak.”

He looked up sharply.

“She must endure no further penance.”

“No more lashings. No more kneeling vigils.”

Hazel’s eyes welled. “But Lady Vivienne insisted—three kneelings at the old Moon Shrine tonight… for the young mistress’s blessing…”

The healer didn’t argue with the Lady.

He only pressed a folded parchment into Hazel’s hand. “Brew this. Make her drink it. Keep her from the night air.”

At the threshold, he glanced back at Cassian as if weighing words, then left with a quiet sigh.

Silence fell—thick and heavy—broken only by the crackle of the hearth painting Cassian’s profile in shifting light, a cruel mimicry of warmth.

Cassian sat at the bedside. The silence stretched like a performance of belated guilt.

Finally, he spoke, voice softening into the sugary cadence he used to pave over broken promises.

“My words earlier… were too harsh.”

He paused, selecting his placations with care. “If you would simply… stop challenging Serena.”

“After she is… gone, things will return to how they were.”

How they were.

The last ember of warmth in Lyra’s chest died.

She looked at him, her question slow—each word dragged from a well of pain.

“And after she’s gone… when do you intend to complete the mate-bond with me?”

Cassian’s throat worked.

He was silent for several heartbeats, as if deciding whether to feed her another lie or finally hand her the truth.

“I gave her my word,” he said. “When she departs, I’ll keep a decade of mourning for her.”

Ten years.

Lyra’s lips curved into a faint smile, brittle as cracking ice.

Her “lifetime” was eleven nights long.

And he spoke of a decade as if bestowing her a future she would never live to see.

She asked no more.

The answer was enough.

She closed her eyes, seeking respite, but sleep would not come.

In the past, silence between them was never like this—a cold, barren expanse. They used to talk of moon cycles and mist-laden forests, Council politics and shared futures, border treaties with hunters, even which memorial candle might one day bear both their names.

Now, they had gone from sharing every thought to having nothing left to say.

The door creaked open.

Fragrance entered first—sweet, cloying, deliberate.

Serena glided in, holding a steaming bowl of medicine. Her white dress was immaculate, a stark contrast. A thin bandage adorned the back of her hand—a minor burn worn like a badge.

She moved to Cassian’s side, voice a soft caress. “You’ve cared for her long enough. Let me tend to her now.”

Cassian’s gaze softened instantly. “Of course.” He rose, relinquishing his place—and by extension, Lyra’s care—to her without hesitation.

Serena settled on the edge of the bed, lifting a spoonful of the dark liquid to Lyra’s lips.

“Sister, I brewed this myself. You must drink it to recover.”

The steam was scalding. Even before it touched her, Lyra flinched back from the heat.

A flicker of something cold passed through Serena’s eyes—gone in an instant.

Then, with a sudden movement, Serena tipped the spoon, forcing the liquid toward Lyra’s mouth.

The searing heat made Lyra jerk away, her hand coming up to push the bowl aside.

Clatter.

The medicine splashed.

Serena gasped dramatically. “Ah—it burns!”

A small angry red bloom appeared on her pristine hand—tiny, but made into tragedy.

Cassian was at her side in an instant, snatching the bowl and seizing Serena’s wrist.

“Serena! Are you hurt?”

Tears welled instantly in Serena’s eyes. “It’s nothing… only my heart aches.”

“I heard she was ill and rushed to brew her draught.”

“I didn’t realize… she still resents me so much she’d refuse even the medicine I bring.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

Sharp as a blade.

Cassian wiped it away with tenderness that felt like a physical blow. “Don’t cry,” he murmured. “She’ll drink it.”

Then—

He took the still-steaming bowl and held it to Lyra’s lips.

His eyes were the frozen surface of a midnight lake.

“Drink.”

“Don’t spurn Serena’s kindness.”

Lyra’s throat tightened. “I won’t. It’s too hot.”

Before the last word faded—

A vise-like grip seized her jaw. Cassian forced her mouth open and poured the scalding liquid down her throat.

Fire lanced through her. She choked, coughing violently, tears springing unbidden.

His voice—thick with suppressed fury—grated in her ear.

“Did you think of her getting burned when you shoved the bowl away?”

He slammed the empty vessel onto the bedside table.

Scooping Serena into his arms, he turned and strode from the room, steps sure and swift, cradling his treasure.

From the sanctuary of his embrace, Serena glanced back.

No apology.

Only victory.

Their voices carried clearly down the hall.

“Cassian, we’re to complete the mate-bond soon… the final claim… and when I think of how you and Lyra once… it hurts.”

Cassian’s reply was low, a vow. “In the past, my affection for her was real.”

“But for all the nights to come—my heart belongs only to you.”

The door clicked shut.

Lyra lay amid damp sheets, her throat a ravaged conduit of pain.

She stared at the ceiling, and a profound quiet settled over her.

The quiet of something finally, irrevocably dying.