Lyra’s POV
The palace was louder than usual. Not with noise, but with a kind of chaotic quiet—the kind that settled after a glass shattered, and everyone waited to see who would clean it up.
I was coming back from the kitchen corridor when I saw Anya.
She didn’t see me—not at first. She was near the back courtyard, close to the herb gate. Only senior staff and ranked visitors used that entrance.
The sun was behind her, casting her silhouette against the gravel. She leaned toward a man I didn’t recognize. Tall. Pale blue coat. The silver cuff on his wrist gave him away—a noble messenger. Not palace-born, not one of us.
Their conversation was hushed, the kind that meant it important. I pressed into the nook by the kitchen’s side door and watched.
The man handed her something, quickly,
