The dream came soft, like a memory wrapped in fog.

  Lysara stood barefoot in endless rows of hydro-corn, their tall chrome stalks humming with artificial light under a flickering electric sky. The air was thick with fertilizer and ozone. Somewhere in the distance, irrigation drones buzzed quietly over cracked soil.

  She was smaller in the dream—twelve again. Her hands were calloused. Her ribs showed. Her clothes were too thin for the cold wind slipping through the greenhouse dome’s cracked seams.

  Her mother stood at the far edge of the field.

  She wasn’t facing her. Just working. Moving slowly, deliberately, as she always had—pulling weeds from the synthetic soil, checking the nutrient tubes. Her long, dark hair was tied in the same rough braid. Her back curved with exhaustion that had no end.

  Lysara tried to speak.

  “Mama?”

  But no sound came out.

  She stepped forward. Then another. But the ground felt too heavy, like the soil was pulling her back, swallowing her feet.

  Her mother paused.

  Then turned.

  Her eyes were tired. So tired.

  She smiled—a small, sad thing—and mouthed something.

  Lysara strained to understand. Moved closer.

  “Don’t come back,” her mother whispered.

  Then the overseer’s voice split the sky like thunder:

  “BACK TO WORK, GIRL!”

  Lysara flinched. The chrome stalks twisted like vines, reaching out and grabbing her arms.

  “You think you can run, little rat? You think there’s anywhere better than here?”

  The soil cracked open. Steam hissed from the ground. The sky dimmed.

  Her mother was gone.

  Only the overseer remained—faceless and tall, holding a shock rod that buzzed with electricity.

  Lysara turned to run.

  But she was twelve again.

  And her legs wouldn’t move.

  The rod came down—

  She woke with a sharp gasp, heart pounding, the scent of soil and fire still thick in her throat.

  The room was dim and silent—except for the soft sputter of an old heater in the corner.

  Lysara sat up slowly. Breath shallow. Skin damp with sweat.

  Thorne’s spare cot creaked beneath her, its springs old and loud with memory. She pressed a hand to her chest, steadying her heartbeat.

  The dream clung to her like soot.

  Her mother’s voice.

  The overseer’s words.

  The chrome fields.

  All of it still too close.

  She stood and dressed without sound. Found her cloak where she’d left it. Her dagger rested untouched on the crate beside her. Thorne never touched her weapons. He knew better.

  The clock blinked 06:12. Early. Gray light seeped through the cracks in the boarded windows.

  She hesitated at the door.

  Wanted to speak.

  To thank him. To say something.

  She didn’t.

  She opened the door and nodded to him across the room.

  “I have to go.”

  Thorne didn’t argue. Didn’t ask. Just raised his cup of whatever passed for tea and let her walk out.

  The path up from the underground was narrow and old—forgotten tunnels from a time before the city grew its second skin. Lysara moved like smoke, quick and quiet. The dream still echoed in her mind, but she kept it locked away. Compartmentalized. Filed beside too many others.

  The surface greeted her with cold gray light and the smell of rain-damp stone.

  Steam hissed from alley grates. Church bells tolled six slow notes. The skyline of Veyrn shimmered gold above her, veined with circuitry and sin.

  She made it two steps before she felt it—

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Someone watching.

  Not casual.

  Intentional.

  Measured.

  She reached for the dagger under her cloak—

  “You’re late,” said a familiar voice.

  Lysara’s hand relaxed.

  From the shadows beside the garden wall of the Korr estate stepped Kaelira Dren—hood down, one boot braced against the stone, arms crossed with her usual half-grin.

  “Kael,” Lysara said. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw something sharp.”

  “You always say that. One day you will, and I’ll die happy.”

  Lysara stepped closer. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d bring you a sunrise.”

  She tossed a datachip.

  Lysara caught it.

  “What is it?”

  Kael’s tone changed. Lower. Serious.

  “Your name’s been passed around. Quiet rooms. Expensive ones.”

  “Which House?”

  Kael shook her head.

  “Not just Houses anymore.”

  Lysara’s pulse ticked up.

  Kael leaned in just enough to whisper:

  “Whatever you’re walking into… it started moving faster last night.”

  Then, like always, she stepped back with a grin, flicked her hood up, and vanished into the morning mist.

  Lysara stared at the chip.

  Then turned toward the estate.

  The estate was too quiet.

  The wind had changed. The air had weight.

  Inside, Bastian waited.

  “Was the dream bad?” he asked, not looking up.

  Lysara paused.

  She didn’t ask how he knew. He always did.

  “The farm. My mother.”

  “The worst ones always come from truth.”

  She sat by the hearth. The tea Bastian poured was warm. Gentle. Familiar.

  “She told me not to come back,” she murmured.

  “She wanted you to be free.”

  “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

  “Would it change what you do?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Her hand clenched too tight around the teacup.

  The warmth became heat.

  Then pain.

  Then—

  Crack.

  A hairline fracture split the ceramic. A sharp pop. Then—

  Shatter.

  Tea spilled across her palm. She didn’t flinch.

  The fire in the hearth flared. Magic stirred beneath her skin. Not clean. Not calm. Not diplomatic.

  The other self—the Ghost—moved beneath the surface.

  Bastian sat straighter.

  “Control it.”

  Lysara exhaled.

  The fire dimmed.

  The pressure retreated.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “You were almost someone else.”

  “She doesn’t get to come out today.”

  Bastian didn’t push.

  Instead, she handed him the chip.

  “Kael brought me this.”

  He slid it into the encrypted slot. A projection flickered to life:

  Nobles. A banquet. Voices.

  “She’s a threat. Korr is too close to the truth.”

  “We should’ve silenced her years ago.”

  “Let her keep playing the diplomat. The longer she wears that mask, the easier it’ll be.”

  Then a final voice. Cold. Final.

  “We don’t need to kill her.

  Not yet.”

  The image blinked out.

  Silence returned.

  Lysara stood.

  “I’ll change,” she said.

  Bastian didn’t ask what into.

  Her chambers were silent. Still. Tucked in stone and secrets.

  She pressed her palm to the rune beneath the mirror.

  The wall shimmered and opened.

  The hidden room waited.

  Inside:

  Her weapons.

  Her maps.

  Her other life.

  At the center—on black silk—rested the folded Scythe of Repentance.

  Beside it:

  The box.

  She knelt. Opened it.

  Inside—

  The scarecrow mask.

  The stitched grin. The hollow eyes. The silence that smelled like blood and burnt wheat.

  She reached out—then stopped.

  Her hand hovered above the mask.

  Her breath caught.

  Something shifted.

  Inside her.

  Subtle. Sharp.

  The part of her that didn’t forgive.

  That didn’t negotiate.

  That didn’t blink.

  She pulled her hand back.

  Closed the box.

  Didn’t say a word.

  Didn’t need to.

  The mask was still watching her.

  Even from the dark.