Chapter Four · The Voice Beneath

You are truly cruel...

Lyra jolted awake, her breath catching as her pulse hammered against her ribs.

The image flared again: the beast’s mouth sewn nearly shut, its eyes locked on hers.

The room lay in the gray light before dawn. No one was there, yet the words lingered beside her ear, thin and sharp.

She shifted onto her side. Her left wrist throbbed.

The bandage had gone stiff around it.

Something pulsed beneath the cloth.

She stared at it for a moment, then loosened the bandage and pulled it back.

The burn was swollen.

The skin twitched with each beat, rising and falling in small, uneven motions.

It wasn’t her heartbeat.

Slower. Out of time.

Her breath hitched.

What is that?

Her fingers curled.

The pulse came once more.

Then stopped.

The skin stilled.

Only the faint soreness of the burn remained.

“Did I imagine it?”

Slowly, she wrapped the bandage around her wrist again. Then she lay back against the pillow, her gaze unfocused.

The arena returned in fragments.

The moment her blade swept across the gap and cut deep.

Unease lingered.

Morning light slipped through the curtains, but it did little to clear the fog within her.

After breakfast, she made her way to the Crown Study.

Even during Classical Arithmancy, the words would not leave her.

She still did not know whether the voice had belonged to someone else or to the beast itself. She was not ready to look too closely at what she had done in the arena. But uncertainty was harder for her to bear than whatever the answer might be.

When the lecture shifted to Arcane Trigonometry, Master Magnus instructed her on using the angle of elevation to calculate the height of a wall.

The chalk lifted and moved across the board, guided by his magic as he spoke. Lyra followed the lines as they took shape, but her mind was elsewhere.

She wanted to go back. But she had no patience for Obewich, or anyone else, asking where she was going and why. She was not a child anymore.

Almost at once, an idea took shape. Lyra lowered her gaze, as if studying the diagram.

She stood.

“Master Magnus, if we know the angle and the distance, we can determine the height, can’t we?”

Magnus nodded.

“Correct. The tangent of the angle, multiplied by the distance. Provided your measurements are precise.”

Lyra paused.

“Then could we use that to estimate how deep the dungeon runs beneath the arena?”

Magnus adjusted his spectacles and studied her.

“If you have a reference point, yes.”

“I understand, sir.”

Lyra sat down again and gave every appearance of listening closely to her teacher.

After class, she asked permission to test the method for herself. She went straight to the arena.

It was quiet now, a far cry from the energy of the day before.

Every gate was shut.

Lyra paused at a narrow gap in the stone and looked through. Two guards stood watch at the dungeon entrance. No one was looking her way.

She moved along the outer ring of the arena, following the seams in the stone.

Then she slowed.

If I’m right, it should be directly beneath here.

Without warning, the pulse snapped through her wrist.

Lyra went still.

Again?

It came once more.

She had not imagined it.

Then a faint tremor rose through the stone beneath her feet and climbed into her bones. A thin sound reached her ears.

Lyra turned her head, listening. Left. Then right, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.

She shifted one step closer to the wall. The tremor deepened.

There. The dungeon where the beast was kept.

Lyra drew closer and placed her palm against the granite wall. Then pressed her ear to it. Something came through, faint and thin.

The scrape of chain over stone and... a shift of weight below.

And then something else...

A slow breath.

The pulse in her wrist grew stronger, each beat pressing harder beneath the bandage until the burn felt ready to burst. With it, the sounds below sharpened.

Something stirred inside her, almost like the presence of magic.

Could this be because of Vael’Kharoth?

Lyra kept her ear against the wall. Her fingers tightened against the granite.

Mother’s fae clan has always had an affinity for sound and vibration. They can hear and send sounds in ways others can’t. I’ve never tried it myself.

But I want to now.

Lyra closed her eyes and focused, trying to send the thought downward on a long, steady hum.

Can you hear me?

For a heartbeat, nothing answered.
Lyra let out a slow breath.
Then:

Well, well, well.

The words rose as a faint vibration through the stone and reached her ear.

It was the same voice she had heard in the arena.

Lyra jerked away from the wall. Her pulse spiked. She held her breath.

Then she forced it out.

Slowly, she leaned in again and pressed her ear to the granite, focusing once more.

What’s your name?

This time, nothing answered.
Lyra stayed there a moment longer, waiting.
No tremor followed.
No sound.
A faint embarrassment crept over her. She withdrew her hand and stepped away.
Only when the arena lay far behind her did the pulse in her wrist ease.

Back in the Moontis Chamber, Lyra lay on her bed, staring out the window.

Now she knew whose voice it was.

Was I the only one who could hear it? Or had someone else heard it too?

Lyra turned onto her side.

Was defeating a beast really such a terrible thing?

She was not ready to look any deeper for an answer. The Royal Proving had been held for generations, and no one seemed to think there was anything strange about it.

Maybe she was simply exhausted.

She needed rest if she was going to recover properly.

With that thought, she slowly drifted to sleep.

A few days later, Lyra sat in Epic History class.

The open page held an old hymn:

Praise the Ravok, whose wings claimed half the sky,
whose crimson breath melted the swords of our foes.

The moment her eyes stopped at the word breath, heat rose at the back of her neck.

An image appeared, sharp enough to make her choke.

Crooked black stitches pulled tight across raw flesh. A mouth sewn nearly shut from corner to corner.

Lyra slammed the book shut.

Master Rowan looked down at her from the lectern.

“Is there a problem, Your Highness?”

She stood, keeping her voice steady.

“Sir, I don’t feel well.”

He studied her for a second too long before finally nodding.

Lyra left the chamber.

Only after she had walked some distance from the Crown Study did she realize she was still clutching the book, her knuckles white against the leather.

Her steps carried her straight to the arena, to the same spot.

What is happening to me?

Why won’t the images leave?

Lyra frowned and pressed her fist lightly against her brow.

I need to know why.

As soon as she pressed her ear to the granite wall, strong vibrations surged through it.

A familiar voice reached her through them.

Back again?

Lyra flinched.

You recognize me?

Of course. A line of liars.

Lyra froze.

What are you saying?

You smell just like them.

What?

Hnh. Go away!

The voice scraped through the granite, thin and sharp.

A flicker of indignation stirred in her, but she did not rise to it. Instead, she lowered the hum.

...Why was your mouth sewn shut?

A thin, broken laugh came through the granite.

You should know before asking.

They say you killed many civilians.

Killed civilians?

The last word rose sharply.

Ridiculous.

Still pressing her ear to the wall, Lyra frowned, trying to make sense of the sudden fury.

A voice behind her made her jolt.

“Your Highness.”

A servant.

Lyra straightened at once, her expression smoothing into composure.

The woman bowed and moved on.

Only when her footsteps faded did Lyra draw a breath and press her ear to the granite again. Her hand tightened, then eased.

Tell me the truth. If you are innocent, I will see justice done.

The reply came at once.

Justice.

A beat.

Am I so pitiful?

Lyra faltered.

Not that.

She could think of no answer. After a brief pause, she steered the conversation elsewhere, hoping the beast would calm down.

The wound I left on your leg... does it still hurt?

Suddenly, the granite wall shuddered violently beneath her hand. A harsh roar burst from below.

You slashed me. Then ask if it hurt?

You want to win and keep your hands clean.

Just as fake as Aethrador.

Lyra’s eyes widened. Her pride flared at the accusation.

That’s insane!

The hum sharpened with the force of the thought.

Aethrador is my grandfather.

He ended the war. He founded this kingdom.

Mind your words.

Isn’t that why he locked you up? You betrayed him!

A chain snapped taut below and slammed against the stone wall with a heavy clank.

LIES!

The vibration surged upward through the stone and into the granite wall.

Your noble grandfather wanted it all.

He feared I would reveal his secrets.

The other chains followed, lashing against the stone walls below.

And your father?

He sat on the dais.

Watched me chained, stabbed, slashed.

Cruel bloodline.

Am I wrong?

Get out.

Never come back.

But—

BANG.

A metal tray slammed into a stone wall below.

BANG. BANG.

Chains lashed wildly.

HE is the traitor!

The stone floor below shook.

The tremor climbed up into the granite wall.

I AM NOT!

The force of the roar surged through the granite and into her bones.

At the dungeon gate, both guards glanced inward.

One snorted, then turned away.

Lyra pressed closer to the wall.

You’re lying.

The thought trembled through the hum.

Why would he lock you up if you were innocent?

A sob rose and caught in her throat.

No answer came from the beast.

Beneath the ground, the tremors slowed. The chains clattered onto the stone floor. Only the beast’s ragged breathing came faintly through the granite.

Lyra wiped her tears away, quick and rough. Then she turned and walked out of the arena.

On top of the arena wall, a raven shifted once, then went still again.

By the time Lyra returned to her chamber, her lips were still trembling.

She climbed onto the bed and drew her knees to her chest.

Grandfather.

How could he be a traitor?

No.

Insolent beast.

Her throat clenched. Her eyes burned, but she held the tears back.

But... what if it was true?

If Grandfather was wrong,

then this whole kingdom...

No.

She buried her face in her knees and covered her ears.

I don’t want to think about it.

Get out of my head!

Her tears had just spilled over when someone knocked at the doors. Lyra quickly wiped them away with her sleeve.

“Obewich? Come in.”

“It’s Mother.”

Lyra froze.

The doors opened. The Queen stepped in.

She came to sit beside her on the edge of the bed, her expression gentle.

She didn’t ask what had happened, nor did she seem troubled.

“Some things aren’t about right or wrong. They’re about the choices we make.”

Lyra didn’t understand, but the Queen continued.

“There are things you have to face... to learn how to move forward.”

Lyra said nothing. Her eyes were red.

Her mother gently stroked her hair.

“Next week, come with me to my fae clan. I haven’t been back to see my father since I was carrying you.”