Lyra did not return to the isolation of her bedchamber after the fractured confession on the balcony. She couldn’t bring herself to cross that threshold. The horrific cadence of Elara’s weeping—the fragile whisper of words like used, broken, and pregnant—vibrated inside her skull like a persistent, maddening echo she was entirely powerless to quiet.
Driven by a restless, churning anxiety, she wandered aimlessly through the most neglected, silent arteries of the estate. Her rich emerald-green cloak was pulled tightly around her shoulders like a suit of ceremonial armor, shielding her from the drafty halls until her boots mechanically guided her into the old servants’ wing. It was a forgotten, labyrinthine sector of the manor she hadn't set foot in since her earliest childhood years.
At th
