The car was too small for peace.
Lyra sat as close to the window as she could, watching the city blur past in a haze of steel and sunlight.
Her cloak was tucked tightly around her, a shield against the world—and, more importantly, against the woman seated not two feet away.
She could feel Alayah's presence, loud as a bonfire, even when the demon champion was silent.
Which, Lyra realized, was only ever for show. The silence in the car was not comfortable or companionable; it was the sharp, sparking quiet of a fuse just waiting to ignite.
Every so often, Alayah would tap her fingers on the window, or stretch one muscular arm across the back seat, or roll her shoulders in a lazy, feline way that made her shirt ride up and expose the defined line of her stomach.
It was showmanship, and Lyra was not interested in the performance.
Or so she told herself.
They'd left the teleportation circle less than half an hour ago, and already Lyra felt as if she'd spent a lifetime trapped in this metal cage.
The city outside was a jarring swirl of human life: neon signs and glass buildings, crowds chattering into glowing rectangles, motorbikes whining in the midday heat.
Lyra watched it all with the distant, slightly cold curiosity of a scientist observing a new species.
She did not belong here. And neither, she thought, did her rival.
The car's interior was plush and smelled faintly of unfamiliar cologne. The human driver, a young man, had said almost nothing since they entered.
Once or twice he'd tried to ask if they were students, but the look on Lyra's face had sent him back to staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
The only sound was the low hum of the engine, punctuated every so often by Alayah's attempts at conversation.
"So, Celestian. You got a favorite color, or are you all about violet everything?" Alayah's voice was casual, but there was a thread of amusement in it.
Lyra stared straight ahead. Silence.
"Maybe you like classical music? You strike me as the orchestral type. Or maybe… something heavier?" There was a deliberate pause, as if Alayah was expecting a bite.
Nothing.
Alayah's sigh was theatrical. She drummed her fingers on the window, the metallic clack sharp and persistent.
"You know, a little small talk never killed anyone. You're making this ride feel like a funeral procession."
Lyra did not respond. She watched the flow of traffic, the endless migration of cars and people—so alive, so oblivious to the cold war being waged in their midst.
A beat of silence stretched, growing thicker.
"I mean, if you'd rather, I could tell you what I like." Alayah's tone shifted, taking on a husky playfulness. "I like heat. I like games. I like a little competition—keeps things interesting."
Still, Lyra gave her nothing. She refused to rise to the bait, refused to acknowledge the itch of irritation and something else—something like wariness—thrumming just beneath her skin.
The car took a hard left. Outside, the city gave way to a more leafy district: trees lined the wide avenue, their branches shading elegant brick buildings and modern glass dorms.
Students humans, all drifted in groups across crosswalks and bike lanes, laughter and shouts filling the air.
Some wore headphones, some wore uniforms, some looked lost or late or hopelessly in love.
Lyra tried to imagine blending in among them. She could almost see herself walking those paths, head high, unapproachable, a queen in exile.
But she could not imagine smiling, not in the easy, careless way the humans did. She envied them that lightness, even as she found it foreign.
Next to her, Alayah stretched again, rolling her head from side to side, joints popping.
"You know, you might as well enjoy this. Not every day we get to live like mortals—drink their coffee, sleep in their beds, try all those cute little pastries. I intend to make the most of it."
She flashed a grin at the window's reflection, clearly hoping Lyra would take the bait.
She did not.
But she was acutely aware of Alayah's presence. The heat radiated from her like a forge. Lyra recognized it now—black fire, barely leashed, an aura that made her skin prickle and the air itself taste faintly of smoke.
She shifted her gaze, focusing on the university gates ahead. Massive and old, wrought-iron filigree framing bold letters: University Saint-Emilien.
The car slowed, turning onto a wide drive flanked by neat lawns and carefully tended beds of summer flowers.
Lyra exhaled, a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
A student crossing the lawn glanced at their car, did a double-take, and then hurried away, likely unnerved by the sight of Alayah's hair—black and white, wild as a thunderstorm—and Lyra's silver cloak.
The car turned again, deeper into the campus, until they reached a quiet street lined with small houses, each painted in soft pastel colors. Numbered brass plaques gleamed in the sunlight.
Alayah sat forward, her voice suddenly low and almost businesslike. "So, Celestian. Got any predictions? Think you'll beat me to the first seven-hundred-pointer?" There was a sly glint in her eye, like she already knew the answer.
Lyra's reply was dry, clipped. "I don't gamble."
Alayah laughed, rich and genuine. "No, I didn't think you did."
The driver finally spoke, voice tentative: "This is it. Number 9, Rue des Peupliers."
Alayah was already gathering her packet and swinging open the door, the movement fluid, practiced.
She paused, half out of the car, and looked back at Lyra, her gaze sharp and appraising. "Enjoy the ride, princess."
She stepped onto the pavement, stretching her arms overhead, body arching with animal grace.
The sun caught on her tattoos swirling patterns in obsidian ink wrapping around her forearms and vanishing under the cuff of her shirt.
Lyra watched, unwillingly fascinated. Alayah was objectively striking, almost predatory in her allure.
It was no wonder she had become a legend among demons. Yet the more Lyra looked, the more she resolved not to be seduced, not to let herself be charmed by the spectacle.
Alayah turned, scanning the sidewalk. At that very moment, a woman appeared—a human, perhaps a few years older than Lyra, with dark eyes and a nervous smile, carrying a stack of textbooks and a bag slung over one shoulder.
She paused, startled by Alayah's presence.
Alayah grinned, all effortless confidence, and stepped smoothly into the woman's path. "Need a hand?" Her voice was velvet and danger.
The woman blinked, cheeks flushing. "Uh—I, um, sure. Thank you."
Alayah took the books, holding them easily in one arm, her body language open and inviting.
She leaned in, murmured something too soft for Lyra to hear, and the woman laughed, a sound bright and surprised.
Alayah's hand brushed her shoulder a casual, intimate touch. The woman's eyes widened, her breath caught.
A shimmer of magic coiled in the air—subtle, almost invisible.
To mortal eyes it would be nothing, but to Lyra it was unmistakable: the first threads of black fire, weaving heat and longing into a tight, spiraling net.
Alayah's smile was slow, confident. She leaned in, brushed a kiss against the woman's cheek, and whispered in her ear.
The woman swayed, her body language shifting from surprise to open desire. In less than a minute, the energy between them blazed—a mutual, consensual hunger.
The magic flared. In Alayah's free hand, a crimson crystal materialized—bright, hot, pulsing with newly minted lust.
Alayah caught Lyra's eye through the car window, holding up the gem with a wicked grin.
With a quick, practiced motion, she tucked it away in her packet, the woman left dazed and smiling, unaware that anything supernatural had passed between them.
Alayah winked at Lyra, voice low and taunting: "Good luck."
With that, she sauntered off toward her house, the door swinging open as if by magic. The woman, still clutching her bag, watched her go, then hurried away, face flushed.
Lyra's jaw tightened. The demonstration was infuriating in its ease, as if Alayah wanted her to see just how simple it was for her to seduce, to gather power, to make a game of things Lyra treated as sacred.
The driver cleared his throat, pulling Lyra's attention back to the present. "Um, miss? This is your stop—number eleven."
Lyra gathered her things, stepping out onto the pavement. The air was thick with sun and the echo of Alayah's laughter.
She glared at the closed door of number nine, then turned her back, unwilling to give her rival another glance.
Inside, her own house was cool and bright. Modern furnishings, strange machines—microwaves, blenders, a flat glass panel that flickered to life when she touched it. Everything was unfamiliar. Everything was human.
In the center of the living room stood the Crystal Archive an urn of violet and silver, pulsing faintly.
Lyra approached, setting her packet on the table. She would not let Alayah's games unsettle her. She was here to win, not to play.