L E I L A N I
The days bled into a week, a monotonous routine of forced meals, supervised walks in the gardens, and long afternoons in the library. I was a model prisoner. I ate everything Lyra put in front of me. I made polite, if quiet, conversation. I even smiled once, a small, fragile thing, when she told me a funny story about a pup who had gotten his head stuck in a fence.
It was all a lie, of course. A carefully constructed performance. But it was working. Fenrir was less tense, his constant, brooding presence easing into a watchful, almost relaxed observance. The guards at the door were less obvious, their hovering presence a subtle reminder rather than a glaring threat. Lyra was warmer, her initial suspicion replaced by a genuine, if misplaced, concern for my well being.
I was
