Chapter Ten · The Spider-Eater in the Garden

Night had fallen over the Chancellor’s residence. Far above it, the Lyre constellation burned.

Syveris stood atop the high tower, his black cloak stirring in the wind.

He watched the constellation for a long moment.

Fourteen years ago, beneath that same sky, he had stepped into the Hall of Prophecy.

Inside the hall, three stone pedestals stood evenly spaced at the center. Above each one, a seer hovered in the air, faint light glowing beneath their feet. Thin strands of light streamed downward to the pedestals below.

Syveris bowed.

“O Oracles of Tharion, I stand before you.”

The moment he finished speaking, the light beneath the three Oracles rose in unison for a single beat, then settled into stillness.

Syveris spoke softly.

“Is the child in Queen Velaria’s womb… the one?”

The three stone pedestals trembled, and the strands of light quivered with them.

“Yes,” said the central Oracle.

“If the child dies young?”

“The blessing will be taken back. The plague will spread,” said the left Oracle.

“If murdered?”

“Those tied to this will not live out half their lives. The kingdom will drown in an ocean of blood,” said the right Oracle.

The echoes faded, leaving the hall in a grave, almost oppressive silence.

Syveris gave no reply.

He bowed once more, then stepped back and left.

Outside, the Lyre constellation burned above the dome.

Fourteen years later, it still burned in the same sky.

On the balcony of the Moontis Chamber, Lyra looked up at the brightest star.

Ravok has been out of the dungeon for almost a month. The palace search is winding down.

I wonder where he is...

Voxath.

They didn’t find it during the search. But when I came back, it was in the cabinet.

What happened?

Is there something going on in this palace that I still don’t know about?

Either way, I don’t think I was wrong to free Ravok. I had my reasons.

And I’m the heir from the prophecy, after all.

But—

Heir to what?

Aethrador’s legacy… or his sins?

Those thoughts kept turning in her mind.

The night wind grew colder. Her eyelids began to droop.

Too late.

She stilled her thoughts, turned back into the room, and pulled the blanket high.

The lamplight dimmed, then went out.

She slowly drifted into sleep.

As her consciousness slipped from the edge of wakefulness—

“Ah. Angel.”

A whisper brushed her ear.

“Come here.”

Tulips unfurled from the dark. Their petals split into small mouths.

“Little angel…”

Lyra saw herself walking among them.

At the end of the path, a gaunt man sat with his back turned, an old map spread before him, scratched over with frantic ink.

She moved closer, but the distance stretched.

The map blurred. The man did not.

“Who are you?”

He turned.

His eyes were deep-set and slanted.

Black spiders writhed in his hand.

He placed one in his mouth and chewed.

A dry laugh followed.

Lyra jolted awake.

The laughter still echoed in her ears.

Too clear.

Her heart pounded.

The scar darkened to purple, thin veins branching outward and curling into slow spirals.

What is happening to me?

It wasn’t just a dream.

The next morning, Lyra stepped into the Wind-Crystal Garden alone.

The wind still cut the same way it had the first time. The ground still trembled faintly as she passed through the invisible veil.

The amethyst path opened beneath her feet, coldly bright and familiar.

Everything looked the same. She didn’t.

Obewich was not there. No voice to remind her.

As she turned through the narrow bend, the crescent-shaped corner of the garden came into view, like a memory preserved in glass.

But half the tulips were gone.

One had collapsed.

Lyra stopped short. Her hand brushed a cold petal.

“Say something.”

The small mouths opened.

“Angel.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“No one listens to our stories.”

“We’re about to die of boredom.”

“Then talk. I’m listening.”

“Do you want to hear about the war among the stars?”

“War?”

At the word, something stirred in Lyra.

She absently shook the flower stem.

“What do you know about the Great War of the Fae Clans, fifty years ago?”

All of them trembled.

“Oho…”

“Brutal. Blood everywhere.”

They turned toward one another.

Then one leaned toward her.

“There’s a High Lord trapped here.”

“High Lord?” Lyra frowned.

“Serves him right for being greedy.”

“Trapped forever. Unable to leave.”

Lyra cut in.

“Where is he?”

The petals turned in unison toward a single direction.

“Beneath the Rubiad.”

Thin giggles drifted through the air.

Without another word, she turned and left the crescent-shaped corner.

Lyra walked faster. Then faster still.

Past the bend, waterlight flickered from the suspended fountain ahead.

The Rubiad spun, unchanged.

This time, it was different.

As she drew closer to the fountain, her scar pulsed. Once. Then stronger. Then still.

The spiral turned. Clockwise.

Lyra lifted her gaze.

Above the fountain, the Rubiad spun.

Perfectly aligned.

Lyra stepped closer.

She was taller now. Her hand could reach.

She raised it, stopping just short of the gemstone.

What am I supposed to do with this?

The garden fell silent. The wind stilled.

The amethyst path beneath her feet flared once.

I don’t know what will happen...

The scar pulsed again.

Not a warning. A pull.

I’ll try.

Her hand touched the Rubiad.

Stop.

Then she turned it counterclockwise.

The water locked in place midair.

The Rubiad trembled.

Lightning burst from its core, pierced her palm, raced up her arm, and tore across her chest.

Her body swayed, but she did not fall.

From the depths of the earth, a colossal heartbeat echoed upward.

Slow. Deep.

“Well, well…”

The voice came thin and sliding.

“Now where did you come from?”

A gaunt man emerged before her, as if surfacing through another layer of space, his high collar framing deep-set, slanted eyes.

Just as she had seen.

She steadied herself.

“I am the princess of this kingdom,” Lyra replied.

A wet laugh dragged through the air.

“Princess? A descendant of Aethrador?”

“You are... a High Lord?”

“Sarrakha. That name is no longer mine.”

The High Lord’s gaze dropped to her wrist.

His face changed.

“Vael’Kharoth?”

Lyra went still.

“You know it?”

“I have seen that mark before. On some fool whose face I did not bother to remember.”

“Can it break magical seals?”

“Mistake.”

The corner of his mouth curved.

“Not everyone is strong enough to resist it.”

His chest hitched suddenly, one sharp breath after another.

He wheezed, baring two sharp fangs.

He forced his breathing back under control.

“The stone only reflects greed.”

A pause.

“Seals break only at the Awakening Spring.”

“Awakening Spring?”

The gaunt man stepped closer, slow, his gaze traveling from her head to her feet.

“Someone without an aura like you must be dying to know.”

He watched her longer than necessary.

At his words, something old tightened in her chest.

She almost said no.

Lyra clenched her fist.

“Where?”

He tilted his head.

“Why should I tell you?”

A spider crawled across the warped space.

He caught it.

Raised it to his mouth.

Chewed.

Dark green vapor seeped from his lips.

Pain shot through her wrist.

She doubled over.

Her right hand clamped around her left wrist.

The spirals of her scar turned.

Space trembled.

Then snapped shut.

Her body jolted with it.

The High Lord blurred, gone as if he had never existed.

The water crashed back into motion.

The pain vanished.

Her chest eased.

Everything felt like a waking dream.

“Awakening Spring,” she murmured.

Is he playing with me?

If he’s lying... why does it feel true?

And if he isn’t...