The manor rang with Lyra’s bright, infectious laughter the next morning, a sound so pure and sunlight-warm it almost chased away the dark, filthy shadows clinging to Elara’s heart. Lyra was everywhere—darting through corridors like a living spark, bursting into rooms with playful shrieks, teasing the portraits until they scolded her with mock outrage, dancing with enchanted brooms until they toppled over in dizzy heaps, and singing with the musicians until their instruments hummed along in delighted harmony. Her joy spilled everywhere, filling the ancient halls with warmth and light.
“Come on!” Lyra cried, seizing Elara’s hand and tugging her eagerly toward the west wing. “You haven’t seen the ice garden yet. Father had it enchanted just for the festival. It’s magical!”
The ice garden
