Lyra lifted her chin and went cold inside.
By the time they mounted the dais, she no longer felt like a girl in a gown.
She felt like merchandise, learning how not to scream.
And as the crowd below lifted their faces and the applause began—polite, anticipatory, hungry—Lyra finally understood that whatever happened next, whatever lie or ceremony or transaction this night contained, the worst part had already happened.
She had believed him.
And that belief had led her here.
* * *
The applause didn’t last long.
It was acknowledgement, not celebration—measured, controlled, as if the room were reminding itself to behave before something valuable was brought into full view.
Lyra stood at Caelum’s side on the dais, hand still resting lightly on his arm, every muscle locked. The lights were too bright. The hall too vast. The eyes—hundreds of them—were too focused.
She could feel them assessing her.
Not admiring. Assessing.
Her posture. Her composure. The way the sapphire at her throat caught the light when she breathed. The way she did not tremble.
Value.
That was what they were looking for.
And she hated him for putting her here.
A figure stepped forward from the far side of the dais—an older being in layered black and silver robes, presence commanding without needing to raise their voice.
The Headmaster.
Their gaze swept the room, then settled briefly on Lyra. Not unkind, nor warm. Just… satisfied.
“Esteemed guests,” they began, voice carrying effortlessly. “Tonight marks a rare and significant presentation. An anomaly of unclassified alignment, stabilized and refined under the guidance of one of our most distinguished heirs.”
A pause—just long enough for attention to sharpen.
Lyra felt Caelum’s arm tense beneath her fingers.
She refused to look at him.
“Lord Caelum Thorne.”
A ripple of approval moved through the crowd.
Of course they praised him.
Lyra’s jaw tightened.
The Headmaster continued, “What stands before you is not merely power of Virelune Collegium. It is potential shaped. Instability corrected. A convergence point that will redefine the limits of what we understand.”
Lyra’s nails dug into her palm.
Instability corrected.Like she was a broken thing that had been fixed. Like she had not fought every second of it.
