Lyra tossed and turned, the unfamiliar comfort of the mattress doing little to soothe her restless mind. The bed was warm, the sheets soft, everything far too luxurious compared to the cold, unforgiving surfaces she'd grown used to. It felt like a dream—a cruel one that could vanish without warning.
Despite promising Penny she'd rest, sleep refused to come. Her thoughts raced, tangled with doubts and fears, each more suffocating than the last. The kindness she'd been shown felt fragile, temporary. She didn't trust it.
Eventually, she gave up.
With a quiet exhale, Lyra slid off the bed, her bare feet brushing against the cool floor. She stood still for a moment, listening for sounds beyond the door—but the house was silent, as if holding its breath.
She moved cautiously, her fingers curling around the door handle. The hallway greeted her with shadows and silence. No guards, no watchful eyes. Just empty space.
Drawn by something unnameable, Lyra walked. Her feet led her with quiet urgency, guiding her away from the walls that felt too close, the bed that felt too soft, the safety that felt too unreal.
And then she was outside.
The garden welcomed her with cool air and the earthy scent of blooming flowers. A breeze danced through her hair, brushing away some of the heaviness in her chest. For a moment, she stood there, her eyes closed, trying to remember what peace felt like.
But Penny's warning echoed in her mind.
"Don't make any rash decisions… It won't be long before things change."
Lyra's heart clenched. The night offered freedom, yes—but it was a freedom laced with danger. She could run, but to where? She wasn't sure she'd survive the world outside—not again.
She opened her eyes slowly, her chest rising and falling with quiet restraint.
And then—
"Trying to run again?"
The voice struck like lightning.
Lyra's breath caught as her gaze snapped toward a towering tree. A figure perched among the branches, one leg dangling lazily, his back against the trunk.
Dark eyes. Sharp smile.
Her body froze. Her instincts screamed to run.
She obeyed.
Barely a whisper of sound followed her steps as she fled toward the mansion—but before she made it more than a few strides, the wind shifted, and—
He was there.
Right in front of her.
She skidded to a halt, her heart slamming against her ribs, panic flaring in her eyes.
It's him.
Recognition flashed across her face. Her lips parted in silent shock as Rowan's smirk deepened.
"Going to faint now?" he asked mockingly, his voice smooth and cruel. "Weaklings like you always do. Maybe I shouldn't have gone so easy on you."
Her stomach twisted. Fear gripped her so tightly she could hardly breathe. The world blurred—until another voice cut through the haze like a blade.
"Stay away, Rowan."
Lyra's head whipped around. Casian.
He was striding toward them, his presence commanding, furious.
Without thinking, she ran to him—threw herself into his arms. Her body trembled violently, hands clutching the front of his shirt like a lifeline.
Casian stiffened for the briefest second before his arm came around her. His grip was protective, grounding, solid. A silent promise.
Rowan's chuckle rumbled low and bitter. "How will she ever stand on her own if she keeps hiding behind you?"
Lyra buried her face against Casian's chest, refusing to meet Rowan's eyes. But his words… they cut deeper than she expected.
Weak. Useless. Scared.
The same labels she had carried for years.
Rowan cast one final glance her way—something like disappointment glinting behind his disdain—before vanishing into the shadows.
Silence fell.
Casian exhaled, the tension in his shoulders barely easing. He looked down at the girl in his arms—this fragile, shaking creature—and something unfamiliar flickered in his gaze.
He pulled back just enough to see her face. "Come," he said gently. "Let's get you back to your chamber."
Lyra nodded, unable to speak, her hands still trembling.
He led her inside, his hand wrapped around her wrist in a grip that was firm but careful—as if he were afraid she might shatter if he held on too tightly.
Once inside her room, Casian guided her to the bed and helped her sit. He reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and handed it to her.
"Drink," he said simply.
She obeyed, sipping slowly, trying to steady her nerves.
He watched her for a moment, eyes unreadable. Then, finally:
"Why were you wandering around like a ghost in the mansion?"
Lyra flinched.
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
She didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to explain the ache inside her chest, the feeling that she didn't belong even here, with him.
When she remained silent, Casian let out a sigh—tired, impatient. He turned and strode toward the door.
But just as his fingers brushed the handle, he paused.
Something in him shifted.
He turned back slowly, eyes narrowing as he studied her more closely. Her posture—stiff, small. Her eyes—wide, troubled.
There was more to this than her silence. More than fear.
And for the first time that night, Casian's heart clenched with something dangerously close to guilt.