“Yes,” I reply, allowing the acknowledgement to remain exactly what it is.
She steps further into the clearing, her gaze moving through the space with careful attention, noting the subtle disturbances near the edge where the soil has been turned recently.
“They’ve been working here too,” she observes.
“Yes.”
She turns back toward me, her expression shifting slightly as she studies my face.
“What did you change?”
I let the question settle for a moment before answering, not out of hesitation, but because the answer is already present in the space itself. My gaze shifts toward the stone marker set into the ground near the edge of the clearing, its surface newly carved, the lines still sharp with recent work, unsoftened by time or weather.
She follows my line of sight, her breath altering almost imperceptibly as understanding settles into place.
“You named it after him,” she says.
“Yes.”
She steps closer, her fingers brushing lightly across the carved surface, not tracing the letters fully, but acknowledging their presence, their permanence.
“He’d hate this,” she mutters, the faintest edge of humor threading through her voice.
“Yes,” I agree.
Her hand stills briefly before she withdraws it, her gaze lingering just a moment longer.
“But he’d stay anyway.”
The truth of that settles into the clearing without resistance, aligning with everything else that remains.
“Yes,” I say.
We leave the clearing without ceremony, not because it lacks meaning, but because it holds enough without requiring anything further, and as we move back into the broader structure of the estate, the changes reveal themselves more clearly with each step. Guards remain at their posts, but their attention no longer locks into rigid lines; instead, it moves, tracking not only what approaches from outside, but what shifts within. Workers move through corridors with less tension held in their shoulders, their steps guided by task rather than fear, and the difference, though subtle, reshapes the rhythm of the entire space.
Lyria notices it all, her gaze flicking from one detail to the next as we cross into the inner courtyard, where a pair of nobles attempt, unsuccessfully, to conceal their attention as we pass.
“They’re watching you,” she says quietly, a note of dry amusement in her tone.
“They should be,” I reply, not slowing.
“They’re waiting for you to slip,” she adds, her voice lowering further as we move past.
“They’ll be waiting,” I say evenly, “and they’ll learn.”
She glances at me, one brow lifting slightly.
“Confident.”
“Accurate.”
The corner of her mouth lifts into something small but genuine, and we continue without breaking stride, the corridor ahead narrowing as the noise of the courtyard fades behind us. The echo of our footsteps returns, softer now, contained within stone walls that carry sound differently than open space.
“You’re not trying to be him,” she says after a moment, her voice thoughtful rather than probing.
“No.”
“You’re not trying to prove anything either.”
