(Third-Person Limited — Lysera, age 6.5)
Morning in House Asterion used to hum with soft domestic rhythms—footsteps along polished floors, quiet greetings from servants, Maelinne's voice guiding Elphira through her morning recitations. But ever since the Festival of Embers, the house breathed differently.
A hush had seeped into the walls. Not silence—silence was peaceful. This was watchfulness.
The kind of quiet that followed a whispered rumor into every room.
Lysera felt it even before she fully understood it. Servants did not meet her eyes as often. Some offered polite bows but stepped back a little farther than necessary, as though proximity itself could pull misfortune into their lungs.
She didn't know why. The flame had leaned away from her during the festival. That was all. A small thing. A strange thing. Perhaps a misunderstanding.
But adults in Thesalia rarely misunderstood anything involving the flame. And when adults were afraid, the world changed shape around her.
I. A Visit Uninvited
It happened three weeks after the festival—the morning clouds still low, the air cool and metallic with the scent of last night's rain. Lysera was playing with Kaen in the courtyard, arranging pebbles into pretend river routes like the maps Dorian studied upstairs.
Kaen kept knocking them over with his heel. "That's not where the water goes," Lysera protested softly. "It does now," Kaen declared. "Rivers don't change just because you say so." Kaen puffed his cheeks. "Then they're rude."
Lysera sighed—then smiled a little. The only constant about Kaen at age three was that his logic obeyed no rules but his own.
A shadow fell over their game. Lysera looked up.
A priest stood in the archway—robes pale grey, hem embroidered with a chain-like pattern. His rank stone glinted with a deeper crimson. A mid-level priest. Authoritative, but not high enough to be gentle.
"Lady Lysera Asterion," he said, bowing shallowly, as though the gesture were a formality he did not fully endorse.
Lysera stood quickly and dipped her head. Kaen mimicked her bow but tripped halfway and caught Lysera's sleeve to steady himself. The priest's lips tightened.
"My name is Priest Lethair," he announced. "I have come to conduct a routine assessment following the anomaly observed during the Festival of Embers."
Lysera blinked. "An... anomaly?" "Your interaction with the flame," he clarified, voice smooth, too smooth. "It is customary to follow up."
It wasn't customary. Lysera knew children weren't usually examined for anything unless a rite went horribly wrong.
Kaen stepped in front of her, tiny arms spread like a shield. "You can't poke her," he announced.
Lethair glanced down at him with the weary disdain adults reserved for children who spoke without permission. "I am not here to poke," he said. "Merely to observe."
Kaen narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Lysera gently took his hand. "It's all right," she whispered. Because she wasn't sure if it was all wrong.
"May we speak inside?" Lethair asked, already moving toward the corridor without waiting for the answer.
II. An Examination Disguised as Kindness
Maelinne received him in the eastern sitting room, face composed but tight around the edges. Her posture was polite, elegant, immaculate—every bit the noble lady.
Only the slight tremor in her hand as she poured tea betrayed her unease.
"Priest Lethair," she said. "We weren't informed of your visit." "As I explained," he replied pleasantly, "this is a standard clerical review for children who display irregular resonance at public rites."
There it was again—that word. Irregular.
Just enough to unsettle without committing to an accusation.
Lethair turned to Lysera with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Tell me, child. Do you remember what happened at the festival flame?"
Lysera's fingers tightened around her skirt. "It... leaned away." "And how did that make you feel?" She hesitated. "Sad."
"Do numbers make sense to you more easily than they should? Do you sometimes notice patterns others overlook?"
Lysera's throat tightened. How could he know she found comfort in counting things when the world felt confusing?
She swallowed. "I don't think so."
Lethair watched her carefully. He already knew she was lying—but lying only out of caution. A child's lie, not deceitful but protective.
Interesting.
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a slender metal rod etched with sigils—a resonant measure. A flame-detection instrument. Modified. Not meant for children.
He held it out. "May I place this near your hand?"
Maelinne stepped forward, voice strained. "Is that necessary?" "Of course not," he said smoothly. "Unless you wish to understand why the flame hesitated."
Maelinne faltered.
Lethair approached Lysera slowly. He held the rod a few inches from her palm. The sigils shimmered faintly. Then flickered. Then dimmed.
The sigils didn't merely dim. They stopped—as if holding their breath.
As if something in Lysera's Nullbound aura swallowed the resonance whole.
Lethair inhaled sharply. "...Fascinating."
Lysera's heartbeat quickened. "Did I break it?" "No," Lethair murmured. "You simply... silence it."
Maelinne put a hand on Lysera's shoulder, pulling her close. "That is enough."
Lethair bowed courteously, but satisfaction glimmered in his eyes.
"I will make a note in the Shrine ledger. Nothing alarming—merely that her spiritual alignment appears... atypical."
Atypical. Another word with edges.
He tucked the rod away. "And perhaps," he added with a polite smile, "the Maiden's Academy will help guide her more appropriately."
Lysera tilted her head. "The Academy?" "Yes," he said. "All daughters of noble houses must attend, of course. But some benefit from... earlier guidance."
The air thickened. Maelinne's grip tightened on Lysera's shoulder. "My husband will decide when she is ready."
Lethair bowed again—deep enough to be respectful, shallow enough to be dismissive. "Of course. May the flame illuminate her path."
But when he turned to leave, Lysera heard him whisper softly to his attendant at the door: "Remember the reading. If the flame refuses to claim her... someone else must."
The words slid into her like cold water. Someone else must. Guide her? Restrain her? Replace her? She didn't know. But the priest's eyes—bright with quiet hunger for understanding—told her it wasn't kindness.
III. Dorian Intervenes
Lethair nearly collided with Dorian in the corridor. Dorian's expression hardened instantly. "You were not invited."
"I am here by Shrine mandate," Lethair replied. "Surely you understand the importance of ensuring your sister's spiritual foundation."
Dorian stepped closer. "My sister does not need your foundation."
Lethair's smile thinned. He studied Dorian the way he had studied Lysera—only this time, he didn't find anything curious enough to soften him. "Overprotective," he murmured. "A complication."
He moved past. Dorian's fists clenched.
Lysera watched from the sitting room doorway, Kaen peeking out from behind her skirt. Dorian's gaze softened when it landed on her.
"Are you hurt?" She shook her head. "He asked strange things." "I know," Dorian said quietly. "I'll speak with Father."
But Lysera recognized the look in his eyes—the helplessness of a brother who could not shield her from a system older than their bloodline.
IV. On the Balcony of Pale Light
That evening, Lysera stood alone on the balcony. The sky was washed in pale peach and lavender, quiet and tired-looking.
She touched the railing. The metal was cool. Her heart was warm and frightened.
Why did the flame lean away? Why did priests look at her like she was an unfinished story? Was she wrong? Was she dangerous? Was she broken?
Footsteps approached. Dorian joined her, cloak brushing softly against her arm. "Priest Lethair will not be the last," he said simply.
Lysera looked up at him. "Why? I didn't do anything."
"That," he said softly, "is exactly why they're afraid."
Lysera didn't yet know what it meant to frighten a nation.
Lysera squeezed the railing. "Will the Academy help?"
"No." His voice was sharp. Immediate. Something in his tone suggested he had learned that lesson far too young himself.
Then, gentler: "But I will."
She leaned slightly against him. Dorian did not move away.
And below them, the valley quieted under the last light of day— as though the world were holding its breath, waiting for the next knot to tighten.