Lyra woke up in a room she didn't recognize.
It was dim, velvet-lined, and smelled faintly of ink and lavender. The bed beneath her was not hers. The mirror on the wall was cracked. And the name etched into the door — faint, silver, and flickering — read:
Riven Lux.
She sat up slowly, heart pounding. Her hands trembled. Her reflection blinked a second too late.
Then the room dissolved.
The Return
She was back in her dorm.
Maris stood over her, pale and wide-eyed. "You were gone."
Lyra blinked. "I was dreaming."
"No," Maris said. "You were standing. Eyes open. Whispering."
Lyra's throat was dry. "What did I say?"
Maris hesitated. "You said, 'The tower remembers me.'"
The Book
The book on their shared table had written again.
> "The stitched ones are waking."
Lyra touched the page. It pulsed.
Maris whispered, "What does that mean?"
Lyra didn't answer. She was remembering things she'd never lived.
Class: Emotional Dissection
Professor Umbra handed out vials labeled Displacement.
"Today," she said, "you will dissect what does not belong to you."
Lyra's vial cracked the moment she touched it.
Cassian Thorn raised an eyebrow. "You're leaking again."
Zephyr Vale murmured, "Or absorbing."
Nova Quinn leaned close. "You're not just stitched wrong. You're stitched with someone else."
The Memory
That night, Lyra dreamed again.
She stood in the fifth tower. The walls pulsed. The air was thick with memory. Riven Lux walked beside her, silent, his eyes blank.
He turned to her. "You're not me."
Lyra whispered, "Then why do I remember?"
He touched her forehead.
And she woke up screaming.
The Mirror Garden
Lyra visited the cracked mirror again.
It showed her face.
Then Riven's.
Then Madame Calyx's.
Then all three — stitched together.
She stumbled back.
Saphira Wynn appeared beside her. "You're unraveling."
Lyra turned. "So are you."
Saphira's eyes narrowed. "I was stitched too. But I learned to hold the thread."
The Whisper
In the hallway, the walls whispered.
"Stitched. Stolen. Shared."
Students began to murmur about the stitched ones — those who remembered things they shouldn't. Those who dreamed in someone else's voice. Those who bled memory.
Lyra wasn't the only one.
The Book Again
New ink appeared:
> "The stitched ones are keys. But keys can break."
Maris whispered, "It's warning you."
Lyra nodded. "Or daring me."