Timeline: Immediately after Chapter 19
Location: Nocterra → Queen Isolde's Hidden Fortress
LYRA'S POV
Lyra hears the guards before they reach her chambers.
Heavy boots pounding stone. Shouts echoing through corridors. The distinct sound of the King's fury in his voice.
"FIND HER! SEAL ALL EXITS! SHE DOESN'T LEAVE THIS CASTLE!"
She sets down the book she's been reading—a treatise on blood magic bonds, appropriately—and stands.
Checks her appearance in the mirror: white hair perfectly pinned, black uniform immaculate, expression serene.
She's known this moment was coming. Has prepared for it.
The poison was always going to be discovered eventually. She'd simply hoped for a few more weeks. Long enough to weaken the consort to the point of helplessness.
But this will do.
He's weak enough.
The pounding on her door starts just as she finishes collecting the essentials:
The communication mirror (tucked in her pocket).
The vial of remaining poison (might be useful).
The dagger coated in paralytic toxin (insurance).
The small crystal containing emergency portal magic (her exit strategy).
"OPEN THIS DOOR!"
She walks to the window instead.
Three stories up. Stone walls slick with evening rain. No handholds, no rope, no obvious escape route.
Lyra pulls the crystal from her pocket. Whispers the activation phrase Queen Isolde taught her fifteen years ago.
The crystal pulses with dark light.
A portal—small, temporary, unstable—rips open in the air before her.
The door behind her splinters.
"THERE!" Guards pour in. "STOP!"
Lyra turns. Offers them a small, cold smile.
"Please give His Majesty my regrets," she says pleasantly. "I would have preferred a cleaner exit."
"SEIZE HER!"
She steps backward into the portal.
It snaps shut behind her.
Portal travel is unpleasant at the best of times.
This portal—created with dark magic, anchored to an unstable crystal, spanning hundreds of miles—is agony.
Reality tears around her. She's being ripped apart and stitched back together, atom by atom. Her lungs burn with air that doesn't exist. Her skin feels like it's on fire.
But she doesn't scream.
Doesn't panic.
Just endures.
Because this is what she does.
She's endured worse.
She lands hard on cold stone floor.
Gasps. Chokes. Forces herself to her hands and knees.
"Lyra."
That voice.
Cool. Controlled. Powerful.
Lyra looks up.
Queen Isolde stands before her, dressed in flowing black robes embroidered with silver runes. Her crown—not the ceremonial one from Arventis, but her true crown, forged from dark magic and ambition—glows faintly in the dim light.
Behind her, the throne room of her hidden fortress.
Carved from black stone. Lit by floating orbs of cold fire. Empty except for the throne, the guards standing at attention, and—
Lyra's eyes widen slightly.
A man stands beside the throne.
Young. Handsome. Dressed in royal clothing of deep crimson and black. Crown on his head. Sword at his hip.
King Daemon of Valdris.
The other half of Queen Isolde's plan.
"Your Majesty," Lyra says, climbing to her feet. Bowing. "Forgive the dramatic entrance. I was discovered."
"Discovered?" Isolde's voice is sharp. "How?"
"The Dark King realized the consort was being poisoned. He's intelligent—I knew he would eventually. I simply hoped for more time."
"How weak is the boy?"
"Weak enough." Lyra straightens. "He can barely stand. Can't use magic. The suppression has done its work."
"Good." Isolde begins to pace. "And the Dark King?"
"Furious. Protective. He won't leave the boy's side."
"Even better." Isolde's smile is cold. "A distracted king is a vulnerable king."
"What are your orders, Your Majesty?"
"We move." Isolde stops pacing. Turns to face Lyra fully. "Tonight."
Lyra's expression doesn't change. "Tonight?"
"The boy is weak. The Dark King is distracted. The timing is perfect." Isolde gestures, and a map appears in the air—Nocterra's castle, glowing with magical markers. "You know the layout. You know the weaknesses."
"I do."
"Then you'll lead the strike team."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
Daemon steps forward. "And the other one? The twin in the Tidelands?"
"Kaelis." Isolde's expression softens—or what passes for soft in her. "My son. He'll be more... difficult."
"The Sea God won't let him go easily," Daemon observes.
"The Sea God will be occupied." Isolde waves her hand. Another map appears—the Tidelands, underwater realm, pulsing with wards. "I've been studying the defenses.
Finding weaknesses. Tonight, while we take Kieran from Nocterra—" Her smile turns vicious. "—I breach the Tidelands and claim my firstborn."
"Two strikes simultaneously," Lyra says. "Ambitious."
"Necessary." Isolde turns to her. "I want both boys by dawn. Think you can handle it?"
"The consort? Easily. He's barely conscious."
"Excellent." Isolde moves to her throne. Sits. "King Daemon will accompany the Nocterra team. I want him to see the boy he'll be marrying."
Daemon's smile is predatory. "I look forward to meeting my future consort."
Lyra keeps her expression neutral.
Doesn't mention that the Dark King already married the boy.
Doesn't mention the bond—deep, powerful, protective—that will make separating them nearly impossible.
Not her problem.
She just follows orders.
"Prepare the forces," Isolde commands. "We leave in one hour."
"Your Majesty." Lyra bows. Turns to leave.
"Lyra."
She stops. Looks back.
Isolde is watching her with those cold, calculating eyes. "You've served me well these fifteen years. When this is done—when I have my power, when the prophecy is fulfilled—you'll be rewarded."
"I serve because it's my duty, Your Majesty."
"I know." Isolde's smile is almost fond. "But you'll be rewarded regardless. Loyalty should be acknowledged."
Lyra bows again. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
She leaves the throne room.
Doesn't look back.
Doesn't think about the Dark King's desperate expression when he realized his consort was poisoned.
Doesn't think about the way he said "I can't lose you" like it would break him.
Doesn't think about how the consort looked at the King with trust and affection that shouldn't exist after kidnapping and forced marriage.
Doesn't think.
Just obeys.
In the armory, soldiers prepare.
Twenty of Isolde's best. Enhanced with dark magic. Loyal to death.
And King Daemon, sharpening his sword with a smile that promises violence.
"So," he says as Lyra approaches. "This consort. What's he like?"
"Weak." She begins checking weapons. "Young. Frightened. From another time—he's not adapted well."
"Perfect." Daemon tests the blade's edge. "I prefer them manageable."
"The Dark King has made him soft."
"Even better." He looks at her. "After we take him, what happens to Ravion?"
"Whatever Queen Isolde decides."
"I hope she lets me kill him." Daemon's eyes gleam. "I've wanted to test myself against the Dark King for years."
Lyra says nothing.
Just continues preparing.
One hour until they move.
One hour until two princes' lives are destroyed.
One hour until Queen Isolde gets what she's wanted for twenty-two years:
Her sons. Her power. Her revenge.
Fifty minutes later, Lyra stands with the assembled force.
Queen Isolde addresses them—words about destiny and power and glory.
Lyra doesn't listen.
Just thinks:
The consort trusted her. Drank the tea she brought every night without question. Smiled at her sometimes. Said "thank you."
The Dark King never suspected. Too busy being distracted by his new husband. Too busy falling in love.
Foolish.
Love makes you weak.
Love makes you vulnerable.
Love makes you exploitable.
Lyra learned that lesson years ago.
Won't make that mistake.
"MOVE OUT!" Isolde commands.
The portal opens—massive this time, stable, anchored with powerful magic.
The army marches through.
Lyra goes last.
Pauses at the threshold.
Looks back at Queen Isolde, who's preparing her own portal to the Tidelands.
Their eyes meet.
Isolde smiles. Cold. Victorious.
"Tonight," she says, "we rewrite fate."
Lyra nods.
Steps through the portal.
They emerge in Nocterra's forests.
Close enough to the castle to strike.
Far enough to avoid immediate detection.
Daemon leads half the force toward the main gates—a distraction, a show of force.
Lyra leads the rest toward the secret entrance she discovered weeks ago. The one that leads directly to the royal wing.
To the chambers where the consort lies weak and helpless.
"Quietly," she commands. "We're extracting, not conquering."
Her team nods.
They move through shadows. Silent. Professional.
No one sees them.
No one stops them.
And Lyra thinks:
This is too easy.
But doesn't question it.
Just leads her team deeper into the castle.
Toward their target.
Toward the boy who trusted her.
Toward the consort who's about to learn a very painful lesson:
Trust no one.
They reach the royal chambers.
Guards outside. Four of them.
Lyra signals.
Her team moves.
Paralytic darts. Silent. Efficient.
All four guards drop without a sound.
Lyra approaches the door.
Places her hand on it.
Inside: the Dark King and his consort.
She opens the door.