Chapter Twenty-Five · The Trial of Igsvar

Tall windows opened to a pale sky. Wind moved through the hall, a thin hiss tracing the metal-carved lines set into the stone floor.

The walls and pillars bore heavy reliefs, thick ridges and hard edges repeating in strict order, as if forged rather than built.

Caelor knelt at the foot of the dais.

The High Lord of Igsvar stood above him, several steps higher, hands clasped behind his back, motionless as a load-bearing pillar.

“I forbade you from going to the Dead Crown. Why did you disobey?”

Caelor lowered his head.

“I was wrong,” he said quietly. “But… I’m twenty now. I want to prove myself.”

The High Lord let out a slow breath.

“I understand.”

“But strength is not only in the blade, or even in courage. You must temper yourself first. The future of Igsvar cannot rest on carelessness. I am not young anymore.”

Caelor kept his head bowed, saying nothing.

The High Lord’s voice dropped.

“I’m told a girl risked her life to save you.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Take me to her.”

Caelor rose, and together they made their way to the healer’s room.

The room carried a faint scent of herbs. The healer worked a mortar and pestle, grinding paste for the wounds.

Lyra lay still.

The High Lord stepped inside. Surprise flickered briefly across his face.

“This girl… she resembles someone.”

He moved closer.

“How is she?”

The healer bowed his head.

“Superficial burns, my lord. She’ll recover. But there is a scar on her left wrist. An unusual one.”

The High Lord’s brow tightened.

“Let me see.”

The healer eased back her sleeve. A thin scar crossed Lyra’s wrist.

Beneath the pale skin, it pulsed, faint as a heartbeat.

The High Lord went still. His gaze darkened.

“Who is this girl?”

Caelor stood behind him, shaking his head.

“I don’t know her name. But I want to look after her. She saved my life.”

The High Lord stood in silence for a long moment. Then he turned and left without another word.

The healer handed Caelor a small jar.

“This salve will close the wounds. Change her bandages each day.”

Then he gathered his tools and left in silence.

Caelor did not sleep that night. He sat beside the bed, nodding off now and then despite himself.

He hoped that when she woke, they might become friends.

Morning came.

Lyra woke.

The high ceiling of the Citadel came into focus. She pushed herself up.

“Where’s my bag?”

Caelor’s eyes lit up.

“You’re awake.”

He grabbed the bag from the table and handed it to her.

Lyra snatched it, opening it at once.

“Good… it’s still here.”

The Emberheart lay cold inside.

“Where’s my horse?”

“In the yard. My men are looking after it. They even fitted it with new shoes.”

Lyra threw back the blanket.

“I have to go.”

“Wait. Your burns haven’t healed yet.”

He gestured to her bandaged palms.

“Let the healer treat you a few more days.”

Lyra stood.

“I don’t need it.”

Caelor rose as well, moving to block her.

“You were unconscious for a full day.”

Lyra pushed past him.

“Someone’s waiting for me.”

She headed for the door.

An older man stood just outside. Long black beard. Silver-gray cloak. Still as stone.

Caelor stepped out behind her.

“Father.”

The High Lord spoke first.

“That took courage. You went to the Dead Crown alone… and came back with an Emberheart. That is no ordinary feat.”

Lyra dipped her head, one hand tight on the bag, her feet already edging back.

The High Lord approached, slow and deliberate.

“Girl… do you need a weapon that won’t break?”

Lyra nodded.

“There are many fine smiths in this Citadel. They can help you.”

Lyra shook her head.

“I already have someone.”

The High Lord’s brow lifted.

“Few can forge a blade from Emberheart.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Bramor.”

“Bramor…”

His gaze narrowed.

He moved to a chair and sat down.

“Didn’t he swear never to make another weapon?”

Silence fell over the room.

Lyra watched him, measuring.

He flicked a hand.

At once, soldiers stepped in from the corridor. Armor rang as they moved, and in seconds a ring closed around Lyra.

Lyra went rigid.

Caelor froze.

“Father—”

The High Lord rose.

“I have questions. Bring her to me.”

He turned and walked away.

Lyra glanced around, her grip tightening on the bag at her side.

Then she followed.

Tall white pillars lined the corridor on either side.

They stopped before a great door of dark oak.

Two guards stood at either side and bowed as the High Lord approached.

The doors opened.

Beyond them lay the Citadel’s council chamber.

Its ceiling soared high enough for hanging lamps to cast long shafts of light across stone walls carved with ancient reliefs of Igsvar.

Then the doors closed behind them, sealing the room into silence.

The High Lord looked straight at Lyra.

“Where are you from? And… who is your father?”

Lyra held his gaze.

“If I tell you… will you kill me?”

The High Lord let out a quiet breath.

“Why would I?”

Lyra flicked a glance past his shoulder, toward the door.

“You had your guards block the way. That makes me uneasy.”

The High Lord gave a slight nod.

“Sharp. Well-spoken. Trained. Your father isn’t a common man.”

He walked along the wall, studying the carved reliefs there.

Lyra watched him.

“My father is the King. Do you believe me?”

The High Lord stopped.

“His Majesty…?”

“That would explain it.”

“So you’re the missing princess.”

“Not missing. Someone tried to assassinate me.”

Something flickered in his eyes, unreadable. Then, almost under his breath,

“Civil war.”

He had the look of someone who had lived through war.

Perhaps he knew something she needed.

Lyra clenched her fist, then let it go. She stepped forward.

“Do you know a place called Awakening Spring?”

The High Lord’s eyes shifted at once.

“Who told you of it?”

“The former High Lord of Sarrakha.”

The High Lord frowned.

“Xareth? You know Xareth too.”

Lyra drew a carefully folded strip of silk from her coat.

“I obtained this in Gemariel.”

The High Lord took it, his fingers brushing lightly over the surface.

The chamber fell still. Lyra held her breath.

After a moment, he spoke.

“I have a piece as well. If Your Highness passes my trial… it will be yours.”

Her chest eased.

The second piece.

It was here. She would not let it slip away.

Her voice was steady, without hesitation.

“I accept.”

The High Lord gave nothing away. He returned the silk, then led her out to the training yard.

On the stone yard, dozens of soldiers formed a wide circle around Lyra. None of them wore armor.

She was handed a bow. One arrow.

“Take it.”

The High Lord stepped beyond the ring, two smith’s hammers in his hands.

“Blindfold her.”

A strip of dark cloth was tied over Lyra’s eyes. The light vanished.

The High Lord’s voice carried.

“If you strike me… you win.”

One arrow. And he stood outside the circle.

An impossible shot.

Unless there was another way.

Lyra slowed her breathing. Deeper. Steadier.

She raised the bow and set the arrow to the string.

Ready.

The hammers met.

CLANG.

The sound rang out, sharp and cold, somewhere ahead.

Footsteps. The High Lord began to move.

The arrow waited on the string.

An old war hymn of Igsvar rose from the soldiers.

Their voices merged, deep and thunderous, thick as fog.

The sound spread across the stone yard, struck the Citadel walls, and rolled back.

CLANG.

The hammer rang to her right. Lyra turned the arrow toward it.

Footsteps. The High Lord moved, fast, then slow.

Wind hissed along the stone.

CLANG.

Left.

She adjusted.

But a line of soldiers stood between them.

If she loosed—

the arrow would pass through them first.

Which meant…

He wasn’t behind them.

He stood behind the choice itself.

CLANG.

The hammer struck again.

The soldiers’ voices rose, louder now, with more force behind them.

Footsteps quickened. The wind sharpened.

The sound broke apart around her. She lost him in it.

For a moment, unease crept in.

She might fail.

Her thoughts tangled.

There had to be a way.

Her scar pulsed. Once. Then stronger. Then still.

A memory surfaced: practicing the Voxath by Lake Lyrenthis.

Her breath lightened. Her shoulders loosened.

No past. No future.

Right.

She let her mind settle. Thoughts thinned, then slipped away.

Her own heartbeat came first. Then the High Lord’s.

The sounds separated.

The song resolved into a single rhythm. Every voice, every step, every breath aligned.

“I see.”

Lyra squared her shoulders and drew the bow.

Now.

She turned, lowered her aim, and loosed.

A dull thud landed with the hammer’s strike.

A soldier cried out. Blood ran down his calf as he dropped to one knee.

The song broke.

A gap opened in the circle.

The High Lord’s voice cut through.

“Enough. You’ve passed.”

Lyra lowered the bow.

He stepped in and looked down at the wounded soldier.

“Take him to be treated.”

Then he turned to her.

“You didn’t kill my man. Others, more skilled than you, would have shot through him to reach me. You chose otherwise.”

He stepped closer and removed the blindfold.

Light rushed back.

Lyra looked toward the soldier.

“I’m sorry… There wasn’t another way.”

He’d live.

She held on to that.

The High Lord studied her.

“You resemble Aethrador,” he said quietly.

“But you are nothing like him.”

Lyra had passed a trial that should have been impossible.

She should have felt relief.

She didn’t.

Guilt returned.

Like before.

A choice made.

There was no clean win.

She had hurt someone innocent.

The thought sat wrong in her chest.

Was there any outcome that didn’t cost something?

Was that selfish—

or simply the truth she would have to accept?