Zay rose from the chair with a quiet breath, each step toward the bathroom unhurried as his muscles finally registered the toll of the last day—no, the last year. The warmth of the house contrasted with the cold rain still clinging to his skin. He pulled off his tunic, lifting it over his head and slipping his arms free. Then he grabbed a towel from the rack, rubbing it through his long hair as he watched the strands fall against his shoulders like spilled ink streaked with snow and flame.
The mirror caught his attention.
He paused.
Chest bare now, tunic slung lazily over the edge of the table, Zay looked at himself. His body was lean, abs like carved stone and shoulders broad but not bulky. He liked how he looked. There was power in it, earned, not gifted. But that thought vanished quickly.
His eyes locked on his hair.
More than half of it now shimmered with white and red. It made no sense. No theory stuck. Not even the Goddess of Dreams had offered him insight into the change.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Hm. Still pretty damn cool, though," he muttered with the ghost of a smirk.
He dragged the towel down his chest, wiping the rivulets of water that traced the lines of his abs, over his ribs, his sides, and around to his back. Once done, he dropped the damp towel into the small basket tucked near the corner, the soft thump it made barely audible over the gentle splash of running bath water.
He cracked his neck to the left. Then to the right.
Turning, he slipped quietly down the hallway. When he reached his bedroom, his hand hesitated on the doorknob before slowly pressing down.
He stepped in, and for a moment—just one brief, perfect moment—Zay felt like a kid again.
Nothing had changed.
The soft violet curtain over the small arched window. The pile of books under the left shelf. The slightly tilted portrait of Akser he'd painted at eleven. Even the small scratch on the doorframe where Lily once slammed it shut when she got mad over him taking a book from her room.
But there was something new.
A closet. It had lacquered black handles and an arched top carved with silver leaf patterns. And the air—he hadn't noticed it at first, but now that he was inside, he breathed in.
Strawberries.
It reminded him of a sunlit morning in the orchard behind the academy. Lyra liked strawberries. It hit him then. This scent had been in her hair before.
He exhaled a soft breath and walked over to the closet. The doors opened with a gentle click.
His brows lifted slightly.
Clothes—more than he remembered owning. Robes in different shades, neatly arranged. Formal tunics, new boots, gloves lined in fur. A soft navy cloak he couldn't recall ever seeing before. Even a black suit he didn't remember owning.
"I have… a lot more than I remember having here," he murmured, half-laughing under his breath.
He reached in and pulled out a long black robe made of silk, and a pair of loose trousers stitched with crimson thread along the hem. After one last glance at the closet, he shut the doors and padded quietly back down the hallway, his bare feet silent on the carpet.
When he reached the bathroom, he stopped.
The door was closed.
Zay blinked a few times, slowly as he looked at the door.
"I… don't think I closed the door?" His voice was soft, and slightly confused.
He listened, hearing the water still running, and nodded to himself before slowly reaching for the handle. His hand opened, fingers curling around the metal, and he gently pushed the door open. As he looked into the bathroom, his eyes widened in shock—Lyra was standing there, facing the door. Her eyes went just as wide as his, and she quickly raised her arms to cover herself.
"Ah—! Shit, sorry!" Zay stammered, slamming the door shut so fast it rattled in the frame. He pressed his back against it, eyes squeezed shut, heat flooding his face. "I-I didn't know you were in there—I thought I left the door opened but it was closed... I'm... I'm sorry."
Inside the bathroom, Lyra stared at the closed door for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. Then, after the panic faded just a little, she burst into quiet laughter, covering her mouth with one hand. "It's okay!" she called out, her voice light, almost amused. "Maybe knock next time, ocean miner."
Lyra turned back to the bath, shaking her head and smiling as she reached to shut off the water. The moment had caught her off guard, sure—but it didn't rattle her. In fact, she found herself thinking about the way Zay had reacted. Embarrassed. Respectful. Immediately apologetic.
She stepped into the warm bath and leaned back with a sigh, letting the heat seep into her skin and soothe the tightness in her shoulders. Her body relaxed, melting into the water as steam curled lazily around her.
Closing her eyes, she allowed her thoughts to drift—only for Zay's face to rise unbidden in her mind. Then his body. She snapped her eyes open, a blush instantly blooming across her cheeks.
"I shouldn't… be having such thoughts," she whispered to the ceiling, the words barely a breath. "But…"
Her fingers dipped below the surface, sending small ripples dancing across the water as her mind lingered in that space between guilt and longing.
Zay walked back to his room, his heart still thudding from the surprise. The image of Lyra—wet hair clinging to her skin, the way her eyes widened just before he slammed the door shut—kept forcing itself to the front of his mind.
He shook his head quickly, again and again, but it didn't help. A blush crept across his face. Was it embarrassment? Or… something else?
He groaned under his breath. "Come on, get it together," he muttered.
As he reached his door, he spotted Lily strolling past—too slowly. Her smile had a knowing tilt to it, the kind only a sister could pull off when they knew something you didn't want them to.
He blinked. "Did she slow down on purpose?" His eyes narrowed as he stared after her. "She totally did…"
Face heating up even more now, he walked into his room and closed the door behind him.
With a sigh, he stripped off his damp trousers and pulled on a clean pair of loose trousers. The lingering scent of strawberries in the air wrapped around him, and he realized it reminded him of Lyra.
He groaned again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not helping."
Crossing the room, he sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. The fatigue that had been clawing at him all day surged forward. He blinked once… twice…
Then fell backward, his head sinking into the soft silk pillow. He tugged the quilt lazily over himself, exhaled a long breath—and within seconds, he was asleep.
Lyra stirred, her hand gliding along the surface one last time before she leaned forward with a quiet sigh. Steam still clung to the mirror and hung gently in the air, softening the corners of the room in a dreamy haze. She rose slowly from the bath, water trailing down her skin in delicate rivulets, catching the light like threads of glass.
She reached for a towel—a thick, deep-gray one with a plush texture that embraced her the moment she wrapped it around herself. It was warm from the nearby hearth-stone beneath the floorboards, and the sensation made her close her eyes for a brief second.
Methodically, she dried herself, patting along her shoulders, chest, stomach, sides, arms, working down to her legs. Her long blonde hair was still damp, the tips dripping onto the towel as she used a second, smaller one to squeeze the moisture from it.
Once she was dry, she moved to a low wooden bench beside the mirror, where her clothes had been folded neatly earlier. She ran her hand over the fabric—soft and smooth like it had just been woven, carrying the faint scent of lavender and something faintly sweet, like sugarroot.
She slipped into a long-sleeved silver tunic first. It was a gentle shade of moonlight gray, loose around the arms but snug around her wrists, with finely stitched trim along the neckline and cuffs in a soft indigo thread. The collar was wide and relaxed, resting just above her collarbones. The fabric draped naturally over her body, neither clinging nor hanging too loose—perfect for warmth and ease.
Next came the trousers, made from a silky material that was even softer than the tunic. They were the color of dusk—deep, soft blue—and slightly tapered at the ankle. The waistband rested comfortably at her hips, secured with a simple cloth tie. The inside had been lined with a lighter cotton layer that made every step feel like walking wrapped in clouds.
She stood still for a moment, bare feet resting on the cool stone floor as she tied her hair back loosely, and placing a flower in her hair. Her gaze drifted to the foggy mirror.
She studied herself—not with vanity, but a quiet curiosity. Her cheeks were still lightly flushed from the bath, and her bright blue eyes seemed a little more alive than earlier, though shadows of exhaustion lingered beneath them.
Then, after one final glance at the door, she exhaled softly and whispered to no one in particular, "Alright... Let's pretend none of that happened." A smile tugged at her lips. Not quite successful. But almost.