Lyra notices. Her fingers smooth an invisible crease from her tunic as she speaks again.
“The people that brought us here—they’ve done more than just drag us out of the wreckage. There’s a healer. She’s checked on you every morning. They’ve given us food, clean clothes, and these quarters for you to recover.”
Her mouth twitches—a flicker of dry amusement.
“They even brought me books when I started pacing too much.”
I almost smile.
“I’ve walked the grounds. Nothing’s locked down. No one’s watching us. At least, not like prisoners.” She takes a breath. “It doesn’t feel like a trap.”
Her gaze finds mine again. This time, there’s no hesitation.
“They want to help. I can feel it.”
Safe.
The word scrapes at me. I roll it around in my mind, but it feels hollow, like touching something familiar through thick glass.
What does safe even mean now? Where in this world could possibly hold that kind of peace?
Lyra shifts closer, her voice gentler now. “Someone wants to speak with you.”
I stiffen. “Who?”
Lyra doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes search mine, careful. “They can explain everything.” A beat. Then, softer—truer.“They saved us, Mara.”
I glance around. The stone walls. The unfamiliar bed. The soft blanket still creased from days I barely remember. All of it is foreign. All of it untouched by the shadows that tore through our village.
I’m done with the unknown. I want answers.
Lyra watches me for a moment longer, then rises. “I’ll make you some tea. Maybe find something light to eat. You should try.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I can. Hunger feels like a distant thing, irrelevant compared to the hollow ache still echoing in my chest.
She hesitates in the doorway. “Do you want help washing up? There’s a bathing chamber through there. It’s private. Attached to the room.”
I meet her eyes. There’s nothing pitying in her expression—just quiet concern.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Okay.”
She offers me her hand, and I take it.
The weight of my own body surprises me. Each step is leaden, as if I’m made of stone and sorrow. My joints ache. My muscles protest. It feels like I’ve spent days under siege—not just by the world, but by grief itself.
After relieving myself, I brace against the sink, palms pressed to cool stone. I don’t recognize the reflection in the mirror. My face is pale, waxen. Hollow. Shadows sit beneath my eyes—bruised smudges, like grief has taken up residence in my bones.
Lyra’s voice carries through the door, soft as a lullaby. “Areyou okay?”
I open it slowly and try to smile. Even that feels like too much.
Lyra doesn’t push. She simply takes my hand again, guiding me back toward the bed like she’s done it a hundred times before. I ease down slowly, grateful for the softness beneath me, for the way the blanket settles like something gentle and forgiving.
She pulls the blanket up to my waist, then meets my eyes with a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll go get someone who can explain.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and silence folds in around me.
Three days. Gone. Stolen. Swallowed by something I still don’t understand. My fingers knot in the fabric. I don’t want to sit here any longer—don’t want to drown in the unknown.
