She turns without waiting for an answer. But a moment later, it follows. “Goodnight, Lyra.”
Lyra
My father is fighting a war that has already been won.
Sitting in my cell, I press my back against the wall and listen to the silence. The cold is becoming more familiar now, so much so that I don’t bother reaching for the blankets, even as the cold seeps into my back. I breathe in the chill instead, welcome it as if it might soothe some of the turbulence inside my mind.
The two young soldiers are here again, although they’re keeping their distance this evening. Every so often, one will appear, eyes warily sweeping my cell before they move back toward the stairs without paying me much attention at all. Perhaps Darian’s intervention scared them far more than any tame Lightbringer could.
I don’t know what I expected when I set out from Solvandyr. A place not unlike the one I left behind, maybe. A people bred for war, trained and ready. An enemy prince, cruel and cold and notunlike my father. Just on the opposite side, a mirror image of the man who raised me. That’s what I had expected. Someone who cared for nothing beyond the cost of victory and didn’t care who he hurt to achieve it.
I will end the war. I will end him.
I’ve lived my life by those words, preparing myself to face Umbraxis and all the horrors it might hold, but I never considered that the people here might not be an enemy at all. That they might just be trying to survive until the day comes that they no longer can.
There are far greater horrors in Solvandyr than anything I’ve seen here.
And yet my father wants to wipe them from existence. Even if I do nothing, if I choose to fail, he’ll only push harder and harder until there are no wielders left at all.
Eres. Darian. Kaelen. Sera, and Eldritch, and the two boys whose whispers I can still hear. If Vaelion has his way, these walls will soon be empty, and all of them will be gone.
Blowing out a breath, I press the heels of my hands into the sockets of my eyes, digging in.
The High Solar was gravely mistaken when she told my father I would end the war. There’s nothing that I can do. Nothing that I’mwillingto do to help him seize his precious victory from the ashes of a broken people.
My mouth sours at the thought of my sister. I have to believe that it was an empty threat. Surely he wouldn’t hurt Reena—his only named heir—as a punishment for my failure. Perhaps he even thinks that I died in the Veilspire, depending on what explanation Cindral offered of the events that took place.
And Reena would understand. If I tried to explain my feelings to her, if I tried to show her that the wielders are so much more than we have always been taught… surely, she would understand.
Because I won’t hurt them.
All of it was pointless. The realization settles in my gut, a heavy weight of knowledge. Every day of training, every punishment in the guise of preparation. The days begging for mercy, screaming for help that never came in the name of facing worse from the people here, who have treated me better than Solvandyr ever did. All of it was a waste.
And I can’t even help them. I know little of my father’s plans beyond the broken snippets he cared to share. There’s nothing I can give Kaelen to help their cause, no information I can offer that might save these people from the force that will soon come for them.
Aedryn,help me.I don’t know what to do.
My head raises at the short, sharp tone that echoes down the corridor. Getting to my feet, I cross over the rug and wrap my hands around the bars, craning to see. It doesn’t sound like Eres, but I can’t make out the words. I catch the raised inflection of a question, the hissed voice that follows, and my stomach constricts. Backing away, I stand in the middle as the voices come around the corner.
The boy who challenged me, who challenged Darian—Weslyn—follows with uncertain movements, looking back over his shoulder as if hoping for intervention. “I haven’t been authorized to let anybody down here, Sir.”
“I am a Council member,” Nythen snaps. He turns his beady, narrowed eyes on Weslyn, and though the boy holds firm, I see the fear that flickers across his face. “And so is Valcor. You do not have the authority to stop us from entering, boy. The keys. Get them.”
My eyes travel to the male behind him. Valcor does not meet my gaze. He stays behind Nythen as Weslyn hesitates. His eyes shift to me, and then down to the ground. “I don’t have the keys to her cell.”
With effort, I keep my own eyes away from the opposite wall, and the small, rusted hook.
“I hope,” Nythen murmurs, “that you're not lying to me, boy. The consequences would be rather severe for you.”
His palm unfurls, erevas flickering to life. “Most unwise. Perhaps you might like to reconsider.”
Weslyn pales. But he stands his ground. “I don’t know where they are.”
He’s lying. And my throat tightens when he shifts, placing himself between Nythen… and me. “If you could speak with Kaelen, sir, or Eres Blackwater. They were very clear on who was permitted entry. Or… or Darian—,”
“Veyr?” Valcor spits out. He steps up beside Nythen, any hesitation banished by anger at the mention of Darian’s name. “Get out of the way before he makes you. Don’t be a fool.”
The shadows in Nythen’s palms grow deeper, taller. Weslyn’s back presses against the bars.
