Chapter Two · The Umbral Tower

Three years had passed since Lyra first met Orlas in the Wind-Crystal Garden. What had begun as a chance meeting had grown into a close friendship. They saw each other whenever Lyra finished a term of study, and those days became the ones she looked forward to most. After weeks of lessons and relentless training, Orlas had a way of making the world feel lighter simply by being there. But through it all, Lyra had never forgotten what happened at the fountain, nor lost sight of her goal.

It was another early morning, the palace still dim in the weak light, and Lyra had already been practicing in the training hall for some time.

Her sword slipped from her hand and struck the stone floor with a sharp ring.

It usually echoed.

Today, it didn’t.

The sound died where it fell.

She didn’t know why, but pushed the thought aside and snatched up the sword.

Do it again.

Her blade cut through the air, each swing heavier than the last. After hours of practice, her shoulders burned and her palms stung. Sweat gathered at the base of her neck and slid beneath the collar of her training tunic. But she did not stop.

Tomorrow is the Royal Proving. The court will watch.

“Your cut is late.” A voice rang out.

Her blade halted mid-arc.

King Eryndar stood at the edge of the training floor, hands clasped behind his back. He had come without escort, without announcement, as he always did.

Lyra straightened.

“I know.”

“Knowing it afterward means nothing.”

He stepped forward.

“When did I first place a sword in your hand?”

“When I was six.”

“And what did I tell you?”

Her grip tightened.

“That the blade follows the body before it follows the will.”

“Then do it.”

Eryndar stepped back, giving her room.

She moved.

“Too high.”

His expression remained cool, untouched by approval or irritation.

She adjusted and started again.

The memory lingered.

Cold water. Haris.

The laughter of those princes had never quite faded.

After the fountain, she had trained harder. Forms repeated until her arms shook.

If strength is all that matters, what am I without it?

“Your mind is elsewhere.”

Eryndar’s words jolted her out of her thoughts, and she drove the blade forward too hard. Her balance broke. The sword slipped and struck the stone.

Silence followed.

She stared at it, then bent, picked it up, and returned to guard. She offered no excuse.

“On the battlefield, one lapse will get you killed.”

He stepped closer and adjusted her wrist guard.

“Concentrate.”

Eryndar met her eyes.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “the first thing they will look for is hesitation.”

Lyra held his gaze.

She understood.

Just not what to do next.

Obewich approached and bowed, offering a cloth. Eryndar took it and held it out. Lyra accepted it.

“Thank you, Father.”

He inclined his head, then turned away. The crown caught the light. His cloak trailed behind him.

Lyra stood alone.

If I keep thinking, I will fail.

Forget it. Focus.

I’m not useless.

Lyra moved.

Turn.

Cut.

The air split.

A sharp ring.

This time, the sound carried along the walls, its echo slipping through corridors and stone.

Not far away, in a room with a shaded balcony in the Chancellor’s residence, Orlas tied off the final stitch on an arm guard made of polished deerskin.

He tested the fastening, then loosened it slightly.

Too tight.

It had to fit Lyra.

“Orlas.”

His father’s voice carried up from the hall below.

Orlas rose.

“Yes, Father?”

He set the arm guard on the table, then went downstairs.

Chancellor Syveris stood in his study, fingers brushing the bars of the parrot’s cage.

“How are things between you and Lyra these days?”

“We still write,” Orlas said. “She’s been pretty busy with training lately.”

A faint smile touched Syveris’s mouth.

“So she is preparing for tomorrow.”

His fingers stilled against the bars.

The court will be watching her closely.

They won’t need proof that she’s unfit.

Only a falter. And then...

Perhaps there’ll be quite a show to watch.

He let out a quiet scoff. Orlas didn’t notice.

Then Syveris turned from the cage.

“I need you to do something for me.”

Orlas straightened.

“Of course, Father.”

“Tonight, take the princess to the Umbral Tower.”

Orlas went still for a moment.

“Father... that place is forbidden.”

“That is the point.”

“I don’t understand, Father. That place is dangerous.”

“You’re thinking too far ahead.”

Syveris turned his back on Orlas.

“Tell her it might awaken something in her. That’s what the texts suggest. Don’t you feel sorry for her, still without magic after all this time?”

Orlas hesitated.

“But—”

“And remember, better if she thinks the idea came from you, not me.”

With that, he left.

The door closed behind him before Orlas could say another word.

Orlas did not move.

It’s true. The thing inside the Tower could awaken something within us. But it isn’t that simple.

I should refuse. But I want to help Lyra too.

I know how she feels, even when she tries to hide it.

Tomorrow, she will stand before the court without magic. The strongest princes will be standing beside her. They might look down on her.

If there’s even a chance... that’s enough to make it right.

Back in his room, Orlas sat at the desk.

The arm guard still lay where he had left it.

He looked at it for a moment.

There isn’t much time left to hesitate. Maybe Father knows better. He is an adult, after all. Lyra is his niece. He wouldn’t knowingly put her in danger.

Then he began to write the letter, his hand trembling slightly.

After he finished writing, he stepped onto the balcony and whistled. A Spirit Bird answered, alighting on the sill. He tied the letter to its leg and let it go.

It vanished into the sunlight.

In the Moontis Chamber, Lyra sat on a low bench with her breastplate laid across her knees, a folded cloth beneath it. Obewich lowered himself beside her, a small bottle of linseed oil in one hand and a soft cloth in the other. They were about to polish the armor together.

A Spirit Bird swooped in and landed at Lyra’s feet, the letter still tied to its leg, its seal unmistakable.

Lyra bent down and took the letter. After reading it once, she went still.

A moment later, she handed the breastplate to Obewich, rose from the bench, and crossed to the window. Below, some distance away, the arena came into view.

Haris again.

Water drew tight at his command, held, then snapped forward. Stone split and shuddered.

Stronger than yesterday.

Something tightened in her chest.

She yanked the curtain shut, turned back and wrote her reply.

Obewich noticed the change in Lyra’s expression but said nothing. His hands kept working the cloth over the breastplate.

Once the letter was sent, she glanced at Obewich, a small, easy smile touching her lips.

“I think I left my hair clip in my mother’s chamber. After dinner, could you see if it’s there?”

Obewich watched her for a moment.

Probably up to some mischief again.

He returned to his work.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Night settled.

When Obewich’s footsteps faded, Lyra slipped through the corridor toward the Inner Court’s East Gate.

Orlas was already there, waiting in the shadows.

“You came.”

“What’s so important that you needed me here right away?”

He hesitated.

“There is a place that might awaken your magic.”

Lyra stilled.

“Where?”

“The Umbral Tower.”

Her expression turned serious.

“That place is forbidden.”

Orlas lifted a finger to his lips, motioning for her to lower her voice.

“The Vael’Kharoth Stone. They say it can awaken dormant magic.”

Lyra’s voice dropped.

“Then why has no one ever sent me there?”

Orlas glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was approaching.

“The stone is powerful...” He paused. “I think they were waiting until you were older.”

Lyra frowned, just slightly.

“Is that so?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Tomorrow is the Proving. If there’s even a chance this could help you, I couldn’t keep it from you.”

His gaze dropped.

“But if you don’t want to... you don’t have to go.”

Lyra looked toward the Grand Palace. The King’s chamber was still lit.

The Umbral Tower was not like the Wind-Crystal Garden. The garden had been forbidden to her, but people still went in and out of it. The tower was different. No one was allowed inside.

She wasn’t sure what punishment awaited her if they were caught. Disobeying the King was no small thing.

But Orlas had come all this way to tell her. Whatever his reasons, he seemed sincere.

And somewhere beneath the caution, another feeling stirred.

Curiosity.

Part of her wanted to know what the tower was really like.

Lyra thought of Haris again. She didn’t want to be seen as inferior.

Her fingers curled.

Obewich would be back in the Moontis Chamber soon.

If this was the only way, she would take it.

“You should have told me sooner. Let’s go now.”

He stood there, watching her.

Lyra had made up her mind, but he had not quite done the same.

She gave him a light nudge on the shoulder. Only then did he nod and lead the way. She followed without a word.

Their steps were quiet against the stone. The night was unusually still. Not a breath of wind. They moved by the faint light spilling from the distant watchtowers.

A shadow swept overhead behind them.

They turned.

Nothing.

Probably only a bird.

They moved on.

The Umbral Tower slowly emerged ahead.

From a distance, it blended into the palace shadows. Up close, its obsidian surface deepened and caught what little light there was, polished and restrained, pulling Lyra’s gaze before she realized she had slowed.

No guards stood watch, as if even the sentries had been ordered to keep their distance.

At the door, Orlas paused over the carved symbols.

He murmured the incantation under his breath.

The door shuddered once, then slowly opened.

Lyra’s eyes widened.

“Orlas... how did you know how to open it?”

“My father taught me. My grandmother was Drazhune Fae, so that blood runs in our family.
The stone in this tower is a sacred treasure the Drazhune Fae gave to King Aethrador when she married him.”

Lyra gave a small nod. She knew something of the royal family’s bloodline, though not the finer details.

Orlas stared into the dark ahead.

Then he turned back to Lyra.

“Come.”

They crossed the threshold.

The air closed in behind them, as if the entrance had sealed itself.

Before them, a narrow spire of black stone rose from a chest-high, six-sided base. Its surface drank the light. Faint points flickered inside, distant and cold, like movement stirring just beyond sight. Violet mist coiled around it, slow and contained.

The moment she saw it, Lyra stood transfixed, unable to look away.

A quiet pull stirred inside her, hard to name.

Her breath slowed.

A strange warmth settled low in her chest, almost pleasant. Enough to draw her closer.

Lyra stepped forward.

The distance closed before she realized it.

“Lyra.”

Orlas’s voice cut clean.

She stopped at the edge of the violet mist. The mist went still.

She drew in a short breath, and her mind began to clear. She hadn’t realized it had been clouded at all.

The warmth in her chest lingered, faint now, but not gone.

“Why is it chained?” she asked.

Orlas did not answer at once. His gaze shifted to the stone.

“To keep it from being taken,” he said.

“Too many people have wanted it. It draws them in.”

That must be why people wanted it. It can give them magic.

Then I can’t pass this up.

I’ve been away from the Moontis Chamber too long. I need to hurry.

“Then what should I do with it?” she asked.

“Touch—”

He stopped.

Then, quieter:

“Touch it.”

Lyra stepped forward, and the violet mist slid toward her, coiling around her legs. Its warmth rose to meet her with a soft lift along her skin.

Her breath eased.

It spread slowly through her, drawing something inside her open.

The faint points within the stone stirred and turned, then folded inward as they drew themselves into a distant spiral.

She felt held.

Something in her settled into that feeling, and she leaned into it without thinking.

You matter.

A thought rose in her mind, not hers. It came softly.

You are not small.

You deserve more.

Her hand rose, and her body followed before she realized it.

Behind her, Orlas did not move, but his breath caught.

The voice inside her head deepened, smoother now, more certain.

You will have power.

No one will look past you again.

Lyra’s fingers trembled as she reached.

Yes.

This is right.

You will take it.

They will not stand above you.

Her whole body felt weightless. Her fingers drifted closer to the stone.

The voice went on.

You will break them.

You will be the only one left standing.

Her brow suddenly furrowed.

Something deep inside Lyra rose up, pulling her mind free of the illusion.

No.

That isn’t what I want.

Not like that.

Her fingers touched the surface just before she could pull them back.

Too late.

Lyra’s eyes widened.

For an instant, her fingers held fast against the stone. She tried to pull away.

Her fingers didn’t move.

A cold light flared from within the stone.

Then light split.

A sharp crack, too fast to follow.

“Ah!”

The force shot through her arm and threw her backward.

Her body hit the stone floor hard enough to knock the breath out of her.

Pain followed. Raw. Immediate.

It burned up her arm, bright and jagged.

A mark spread across her wrist, dark and uneven, like something that had tried to take shape and failed.

The spiral within the stone collapsed in on itself. The faint points stilled. The violet mist fell away from her at once, recoiling toward the base and settling into its narrow ring.

The pull vanished as if it had never been there.

Orlas sprang forward.

“Lyra!”

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands unsteady as they found her shoulders.

“Lyra, are you okay?”

She gasped, her breath shaking.

“My arm...”

The pain pulsed, sharp and relentless.

“It hurts...”

Her eyes squeezed shut.

Orlas froze for a fraction of a second.

Then everything broke.

“I’m sorry.”

The words spilled out.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

His hands hovered, unsure where to land.

His gaze dropped to her wrist.

To the burn.

To the shape of it.

Something twisted in his chest.

A raven called outside the tower.

A voice cut through the chamber.

“Orlas. Lyra.”

Chancellor Syveris stood at the entrance. His eyes went straight to Lyra’s wrist.

“What happened?”

He stepped forward at once, urgency in his tone.

“Fortunately, my raven reported unusual movement near the tower.”

His voice lowered slightly.

“I came immediately.”

His eyes narrowed at the stone, just for a moment. Then he turned to Orlas.

“Take Her Highness back to her chamber. Now.”

Orlas snapped back to himself.

“Yes, Father.”

Syveris was already turning.

“I will summon the royal physician.”

Orlas lifted Lyra onto his back and carried her out.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice low and unsteady.

Lyra’s fingers clutched at his chest, bunching his cloak in her fists. Her face tightened with pain.

She couldn’t speak.

Orlas tightened his hold on her.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

Then he ran.

Lyra pressed her lips together, fighting the pain burning through her wrist.

When they arrived, the King and Queen were already there.

The Queen and Obewich hurried forward, helping Lyra into bed. She studied the burn on Lyra’s wrist, her brow tightening.

“Are you hurt?”

Lyra only shook her head, her eyes bright with pain.

Silence settled over the room.

The royal physician examined the wound, then straightened.

“Your Majesty, the burn on Her Highness’s wrist is minor.”

He glanced at the mark again.

“There will be pain for several days. I will prepare a treatment.”

Syveris stepped forward at once and bowed deeply.

“Your Majesty, the fault is mine. I did not guide my son as I should have.”

He lowered his gaze.

“I place myself entirely in Your Majesty’s judgment.”

Behind him, Orlas dropped to his knees and bowed low. He held his breath, his hands trembling.

The King regarded them for a moment, first Orlas, then briefly Syveris.

“Very well.”

He flicked his hand upward, a brief signal to rise. Neither of them moved.

“There is a banquet tomorrow.”

His gaze shifted to Lyra’s hand.

“That will be all. Let the princess rest.”

Then he turned and left.

The Queen lingered a moment longer at Lyra’s bedside. Her expression softened, the tension there not quite hidden.

“Obewich,” she said quietly, without looking away, “see to Her Highness. Make sure she is properly attended.”

Only then did she straighten and leave.

One by one, they withdrew.

Orlas did not even dare to look back at Lyra.

The door eased shut.

The room fell still.

Obewich stood beside the bed, a hair clip in his hand.

“Your Highness... why?”

Lyra said nothing.

She turned away and pulled the blanket over her face, letting the pain burn where no one could see it.

Tomorrow, she might not be able to fight.

She clenched her teeth as pain tore through her wrist.

She would fight anyway.