Chapter 6

The footsteps and voices faded into the distance.

The room held only the mournful whistle of wind through the window cracks—a sound like mockery.

When Hazel rushed in, she found Lyra ghost-pale, her bedclothes soaked, the shattered bowl beside her.

Hazel froze.

“My lady… what happened?”

“Where is he? Where is Cassian?”

Lyra’s gaze was vacant, as if she were already elsewhere.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered, barely audible. “I’m fine.”

Hazel took in her lifeless stillness and understood.

The one who had reduced Lyra to this state was Cassian himself.

Biting her lip, hands trembling with fury and pity, Hazel changed Lyra’s soiled garments.

“He wasn’t always like this…”

“Once, a scratch from a silverthorn rose made him order every last one in the gardens uprooted.”

“Now he’s swearing vows to Serena… What does he take you for?”

No ripple of emotion crossed Lyra’s face.

She spoke softly, as if recounting a tale about strangers.

“Let it be.”

“I don’t care anymore.”

When love existed, it could lift you into candlelight.

When it vanished, it could grind you into the mud and still find you wanting.

Lyra’s eyes drifted to the empty bowl.

The bitter scent of herbs lingered.

The draught hadn’t healed her.

It had effortlessly severed the last fraying thread between her and Cassian.

And with it, the final vestige of her affection for him.

In the nights that followed, Lyra fell truly ill.

A fever like molten silver burned through her bones.

In her delirium, she felt a presence—a cool hand brushing her brow, words murmured too softly to decipher.

She grew weaker by the day. The medicines Hazel coaxed into her were soon expelled, until even the blood she coughed up felt cold.

Her parents did not come.

Yet the manor grew more vibrant with each passing hour—a hive of activity preparing for the Mate Rite between Cassian and Serena .

White roses, ceremonial moon-chains etched with pack runes , vow scrolls, invitations to the old Moon Shrine …

The entire Vale estate seemed ablaze with anticipation for a grand celebration.

Her tower felt like a forgotten sepulcher.

Hazel, wiping blood from Lyra’s lips, offered hollow comfort. “The Lady is just busy… with Serena’s rite.”

“Once it’s over, they’ll come.”

Lyra watched the ashen sky through her window. A faint, weary smile touched her lips.

“With you here, I’m not lonely.”

The words only made Hazel’s eyes redden anew.

The days bled into one another. The fits of coughing blood grew more frequent, her breaths shallower.

Lyra knew she was reaching her limit.

Finally, it was the eve of the Crimson Eclipse.

The moonlight itself seemed tainted with a rusty hue—cold and cruel.

The door opened.

Lady Vivienne Vale swept in, resplendent in an evening gown, her face etched with a rare, urgent “concern.”

“Lyra, child… are you improved?”

Lyra stared, stunned. The first flicker of maternal care in so long stirred pathetic, unkillable hope.

“Mother… I’m in pain.”

Lady Vivienne gathered her into an embrace, stroking her hair—a gesture so long absent it felt like a dream.

“These last nights, with Serena’s rite… I’ve been distracted. Don’t blame your mother.”

Lyra leaned into the fragile warmth, desperate to believe.

She began to nod—

Then her mother’s voice shifted, the purpose clear.

“Lyra, your sister will be bonded. As her elder, you should offer a blessing.”

“Give her the Ashford heir ring.”

Lyra went rigid.

That ring—Cassian had placed it into her palm himself, swearing only his future Luna would wear it.

Her mother hadn’t come for her.

She’d come for Serena’s due.

Disappointment washed over Lyra like a drowning tide.

Lyra pulled away, her throat raw.

“I’ll give it to you, Mother.”

“But answer me one question first.”

Lady Vivienne blinked. “What question?”

Lyra held her gaze, each word deliberate.

“If I, too, were not to live past this Crimson Eclipse…”

“Would you show me the same care you show Serena?”

Lady Vivienne stiffened.

She didn’t answer.

She wouldn’t even offer a comforting lie.

The last breath of hope left Lyra’s body.

“I see.”

With effort, she pushed herself up, retrieved a small wooden casket from the dressing table, and placed it in her mother’s hands.

Lady Vivienne took it and turned to leave.

At the door, she paused and looked back.

A foolish, fleeting hope sparked in Lyra’s chest—

Only to be extinguished by her mother’s final instruction:

“Tomorrow, you will still go to the old Moon Shrine.”

“Perform the three kneeling vigils for your sister’s blessing.”

“Given your… condition, you’re excused from attending the rite itself. It would be a bad omen—it would taint the Rite.”

The door closed softly.

A single tear traced a cold path down Lyra’s cheek.

In that moment, she finally accepted it.

Her parents did not love her.

The last of her lingering attachment—her futile yearning for their regard—dissipated like mist.

And in the newfound stillness, the familiar call from the Underworld whispered once more at the edges of her consciousness, clearer than ever:

“The Black Gate opens at midnight—and the true attendant is called home.”