Their discussion quietened as they focused on finishing their meals. Time seemed to pass swiftly as their jug of mead quickly drained and their plates emptied, the comfort of such warm meals after camping hitting just right. Once the time had come to move, they stood from their table and walked over to the wooden counter in the center back of the tavern. Bottles lined the wall behind the bar, all sorts of meads and beers that were probably only props, empty of alcohol and stained darker shades so as to make their insides obscured. Two bartenders worked the bar, a job Korie himself had never been one to cooperate well on, yet they moved fluidly, with confidence in each other. Naturally, almost as though in dance. The server that had taken care of their table was also there, crouched down and sorting out something in a cupboard. Korie could hardly tell under the dim light.

  Patrons sat at the bar stools, practically hogging every open surface on the large counter top. Lyra lingered behind him, her arms crossed, eyes sweeping over the dimly lit tavern. "Excuse me," Korie gently caught his attention, and the man turned his head, standing up a moment later as he glanced over at their table, taking in their presence. Mostly Lyra's; her height had clearly not been one he'd realized until then. "All good? Was the meal to your tastes?"

  "Yes, just here to pay. Here," Korie placed the last of his gold and silver on the counter, meeting his eyes. The sensation he'd gotten from before, the sudden interest he'd taken to the man had faded, curiously enough. Sure, he was attractive, but he could hardly have a fun break while Lyra was there with him. She'd probably disapprove of such a distraction. The thought made his lip twitch in a little smile, only for a second. "Are there any rooms available? With two beds."

  The bartender took a look at what he'd placed down, giving him a sour look as he spread the coins out and counted them. "Only singles left. You could do with two singles?"

  Korie pressed his lips together, glancing back at her. This was fine; as long as there was enough space, he could spread out his bedroll and have his trance there. He was slowing down from a lack of sleep, though... He'd not slept in over a week, and with his trances filled with nightmares, he was not doing so hot.

  It was fine, though. He could cope another night. Plus, they had little gold left... It would be a shame to waste any more. "That's alright. We’ll take one single."

  They made their exchange, Lyra adding her own gold to the ones on the table in order to afford the room. The server gave them their key and sent them off, pointing towards the staircase by the wall. They could find their own way, he supposed.

  It was all fine until it came to the stairs.

  Lyra noticed it the instant he faltered.

  The trip was barely noticeable - just a shift in balance, a misjudged step - but it was enough to break the quiet rhythm of their ascent. Korie's boot caught on the edge of the stair, and he stumbled, his weight tipping forward as he clutched the railing a little too tightly. It wasn’t like him. He usually moved with uncanny precision, the kind of grace that came from someone who’d spent far too long needing to be unseen. Silent. Untouchable. Her body moved on instinct. She reached out, hand hovering just behind his back, fingers spread in preparation to catch him - only she didn’t.

  Because even that close, he was cold.

  Not just cool like bare skin in a draft, but cold, as though his form radiated something deeper than temperature. The warmth from her mead-flooded limbs hesitated, recoiling slightly from the chill that clung to him like mist. Her fingers never made contact. They simply hovered, ghosting the air between them, close enough to feel that unnatural drop in heat before she let her hand fall away.

  Korie recovered quickly, righting himself, his grip on the railing tightening for a breath before releasing. He didn’t look back at her. Didn't acknowledge the near-fall. The dim light above them caught the pale shimmer of his freckles - dull now, faintly glowing, flickering as if caught in uncertainty. Lyra said nothing. Just watched him a moment longer, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. It had to be the mead. He’d drunk more than she expected, and his tolerance was clearly low. That stumble wasn’t the product of exhaustion alone - it was the alcohol. She was sure of it.

  And yet, something about the fragility of that moment clung to her.

  She adjusted the strap of her gauntlet and continued behind him, her steps steady, unaffected by the drink. The mead had left her warm, her limbs pleasantly heavy, her thoughts softened at the edges. Not dulled - never dulled - but looser. She felt the comfort of it in her joints, in the slow roll of her shoulders, in the way her eyes lingered longer than usual on the dim hallway at the top of the stairs. The chill he carried, though... it lingered. She could still feel it on her skin where she hadn’t touched him. It was unnatural. Subtle. And she didn’t like how instinctively she wanted to protect something so clearly dangerous. Something that chilled the air but still drew her forward.

  She didn’t trust that feeling. Not entirely.

  But even so - she kept close behind him. Not because he might fall again but because if he did, she would be there and Lyra knew that there was a good chance she might not pull her hand away.

  Mercifully for Lyra, there was no need to find out as they climbed the rest of the stairs without incident. Korie kept a steadier pace after his misstep, though Lyra noticed the slight stiffness in his shoulders, the way he seemed to focus more deliberately on each step. She said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch comfortably between them. The hallway at the top was narrow, dimly lit by lanterns that flickered with age, their warm glow casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The air smelled faintly of old smoke and dried herbs - not unpleasant, but stale in a way that spoke of too many years and too few windows.

  Their room was easy enough to find. The key fit smoothly into the iron lock, and the door creaked open to reveal a modest space - wooden walls, a small washbasin in the corner, and a single, low-burning lantern on the bedside table.

  Lyra’s gaze moved to the bed.

  It was… a stretch to call it a single. Wider than most, clearly made for the occasional guest with broader shoulders or longer limbs, the kind of traveller whose size demanded more than the average cot. Accommodating, perhaps but fitting both herself and Korie would be a squeeze.

  She stood in the doorway a moment longer, arms crossed as she surveyed the room, eyes narrowing slightly at the mattress.

  “Well. That’s problematic.”

  The words weren’t sharp, just dry - half commentary, half judgement. She stepped inside, the soft clink of her armour the only sound as she moved past Korie and set her gauntlets down with a quiet thud on the nearby table. Her eyes swept the room again, cataloguing space, surfaces, corners. Not out of discomfort, but habit.

  The size of the room was about what he'd expected for the amount they'd paid. The walking space available was something akin to a corridor, all the furniture pressed close to each other to make as much space as possible.

  "About as expected," Korie responded to her, stepping aside for her to walk in as well. She pressed close to him with her height and size, and he had to turn his head in order not to bump into any sharp metal on her armor. Her steps, ever so heavy, lead her to the back of the room, where she began to deal with her armor.

  Resting there... would prove more challenging than he'd expected. It was either staring directly at Lyra's sleeping form or facing the wall, his back to the rest of the room. Front of the doorway was an option, but still. Uncomfortable. Especially if Lyra wanted to head out in the middle of the night for one reason or another.

  She turned slightly toward him, one brow arched. “Looks like you’ll be getting cozy with the floor.”

  It was only half a tease.

  He set his own bag on a seat, careful to place the bow gently on the small surface. They could ask for another room, but aside from their lack of gold, Korie did not feel like making his way back down and up the stairs again. His body held an odd warmth that made him comfortable and lazy. A little dizzy, even. The floor sure felt unstable. He placed his palms flat on the table for a moment, blinking away the sudden onslaught of instability. He looked over at his sack, the bedroll fastened at its bottom. He ought to prepare for the night, he did, but at the same time his limbs felt weird and the drinks were really starting to hit now. Maybe he'd drunk too much too quickly; the weight of it seemed to be hitting full force now.

  "That might be so..." He spoke, taking a step towards the bed in order to sit there. The mattress was gentle to him, sinking with his weight. It had a bounce to it that suggested it was more expensive than he'd realized. The bed appeared spacious and the mattress soft... luxuries that only Lyra would be experiencing.

  He laced his fingers together to stretch his arms, shutting his eyes. Once his muscles felt sufficiently stretched, he leaned forward with his elbows on his legs, cupping his cheeks and staring at Lyra as she worked to get her armor off. She was so diligent about it, her movements smooth with a routine that must've been mastered many years back to flow the way they did.

  Lyra set about removing her armour with the smooth efficiency of long habit, each clasp and buckle unfastened without thought, her body moving through the motions as if her mind were elsewhere - which, in truth, it was. The mead still lingered in her blood, warm and sweet, loosening the tight edges of her thoughts even as exhaustion tugged at her limbs. Piece by piece, her armour came away - chest plate, pauldrons, and the rest - set gently beside her gauntlets in a neat arrangement, their dull sheen catching the flickering lantern light.

  He stood back up, shedding his coat and keeping himself steady by holding onto the chair, then the table. He loosened some buttons at his collar, took care to take off his belt and place it inside his bag for the night. Finally, he pulled out his bedroll, holding it underneath his arm as he leaned against the wall by the door. He went silent for a moment, staring off into nothing. He covered his mouth with a yawn, blinking. Maybe he was going to sleep after all; not even the discomfort of the hard floor would keep him awake with the warmth of the mead still hitting.

  She sat at the edge of the mattress and reached up, fingers slipping into the tight plait that held her hair back. Carefully, she undid the braid, unravelling it strand by strand until the tension eased from her scalp and dark locks fell freely over her shoulders. She shook her head once, slowly, letting the strands settle around her face. It was a quiet relief - like slipping out of a second skin. The bed dipped slightly beneath her weight as she climbed in, the mattress firmer than expected but comforted by soft linens that smelled faintly of sun-dried cotton and woodsmoke. A far cry from the cold earth they’d passed through lately. She lay on her side, one arm curled under her head, the other resting loosely across her waist.

  Her eyes closed.

  “Goodnight, Korie,” she murmured softly, not turning to look at him, her voice low with the kind of weariness that dulled sharpness into something softer.

  Korie laid out his bedroll then, spreading it out carefully. He kneeled on the floorboards, rough and sturdy. Flat planks were different from laying on soft soil and grass; they were hard, making the lack of cushion in his bedroll all the more noticeable. Once he spread it out, he slid his boots off and set them by the bed, unbuttoning a button on his pants so they wouldn't be so tight around his waist. He took a deep breath, and slowly laid down, a vertigo hitting him like no other. He ought to be more careful drinking next time... He always forgot how little he could truly handle.

  He rested face down, hiding his face in his arm and holding his arm over his shoulder. "Goodnight," He mumbled in return, sighing tiredly.

  The hard floor pressed against him, unchanging no matter how much he moved. He rolled onto his side, then his back, then curled up, but nothing helped. His shoulders ached from the pressure, and his back throbbed where it pressed against the flat, unforgiving surface. Every shift only brought a new kind of discomfort. He raised up his knees at some point with his feet pressed down on the bedroll, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if he should just go into a trance instead. He'd never expected that he'd have a tougher time sleeping in an inn than the wilds.

  She expected sleep to take her immediately - her limbs were heavy, her body warm, her mind finally quiet. But it didn’t come.

  She lay still, letting her breath slow, waiting for that familiar pull into unconsciousness. And yet, something itched in the back of her thoughts - an echo of the moment on the stairs, of a hand that never made contact but still felt the shock of cold. That chill still clung to her skin like memory, ghostly and unsettling.

  He's freezing, whispered a voice deep in her mind. Freezing, and you're letting him sleep on the floor.

  She shifted under the covers, not opening her eyes, but unable to stop the thoughts from threading into her gut. That icy cold had been more than discomfort - it had been unnatural. Inhuman. And yet, she couldn’t shake the quiet discomfort that came with the memory of it. How could someone so cold survive a night like this, on a hard floor, without even a proper blanket to dull the chill?

  Her brows furrowed faintly. She wasn’t responsible for him. He could manage. He always had.

  And yet-

  “…Korie.”

  She spoke the name into the dark, her voice low, almost hesitant. She didn’t turn to look at him, still lying with her back to the room, but her hand shifted, fingers curling loosely in the sheets.

  “You can…” she hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, more quietly, awkwardly, “You can share the bed, if you want. There’s enough room.”

  The words felt strange in her mouth. She didn’t offer closeness easily, not even in the name of comfort. But something about that bone-deep cold of his, the way he’d swayed just slightly on the stairs, the flicker of vulnerability he hadn’t meant to show - it all stayed with her.

  She didn’t know what he’d say. Maybe he’d refuse. Maybe he’d read too much into it. Still, Lyra waited, eyes closed, breath slow. Listening.

  It was as though she'd read his mind. He wondered if he'd imagined it for a few seconds; from what he'd come to know of Lyra in the past few days he'd known her, she would not make such an offer so casually. She was far too guarded, keeping him at a distance both emotionally and physically. So surely this had been a trick of the mind that the alcohol had taunted him with. And yet... he couldn't help the nagging feeling that she really had asked him to lay down beside her.

  He slowly sat up on his arms, looking up at her on the bed. Nothing in her movements indicated that she'd spoken, or that she was even awake. He'd simply have to ask. "Yeah?" He spoke quietly in the dim light.

  For a few long seconds, nothing happened. The room remained still and silent, stretching the moment unbearably. He held his breath, heart pounding, afraid to move too soon. He needed to be certain, to know he had not imagined it. If he had misunderstood, if he had only conjured the offer in his own mind, throwing himself into bed beside her would startle them both.

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  Just as uncertainty began to creep in, he caught the smallest movement. A slight tilt of her head, a nod. Subtle, but unmistakable. A silent confirmation that he hadn’t dreamed it after all.

  He stared for a few more seconds, before slowly standing to a crouch, and then up entirely. It was with a slow movement that he took a seat on the bed, testing the waters. The proximity would be new, entirely so. The closest they'd been was when she'd dragged him around town with his arms bound back in Zephyr Hollow. Most of all, he... could not remember the last time he'd rested in bed with anyone so casually before. Any nighttime visitors usually made their leave under the darkness of moonlight rather than the morning after.

  Lyra heard the soft rustle of fabric, the gentle creak of the bed frame as Korie shifted onto the mattress. The sound alone made her hyper-aware of the space - suddenly smaller, warmer and colder all at once. She didn’t move, kept her eyes closed and her breathing even, but every part of her was acutely attuned to the presence joining her in the bed.

  It was strange. Disorienting, even. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d shared a bed with anyone - not like this, not quietly, not without it being born of obligation or injury or desperation. Certainly not in comfort. Perhaps as a child, curled beside a sibling or a nursemaid during a storm. Perhaps with the princess- no, stop. The memory of a hand resting too long on her wrist, of laughter muffled under silken canopies, threatened to stir, but she pressed it down.

  This was different. This was now.

  He could not make a big deal out of this. He shifted back, sliding underneath the thin sheet of the bed and laying on the very edge, his arm hanging off of it. The bed was a huge improvement from the floor. He was far more comfortable, and it showed in the way his freckles seemed to steady, their flickering growing muted, soft and slow.

  She felt the shift of the mattress as he lay back fully, the faint pull of the blanket as he slid beneath it, careful not to come too close. And still, his presence seeped across the space between them - not in heat, but in the absence of it.

  The cold radiating off him was subtle, but unmistakable. It wasn’t the chill of someone freshly coming in from night air; it was deeper, quieter. A cold that clung to his skin like a second presence, like frost woven into flesh. It made her acutely aware of the contrast between them - her limbs warm and loose with tiredness and mead, her blood still humming gently beneath her skin. She shifted slightly beneath the covers, not away from him, but not closer either. Just enough to register the divide between warmth and not.

  She should have been asleep by now.

  But how could she sleep when she could feel every inch of distance between their bodies, every brush of fabric that signalled where he ended and she began?

  She cracked her eyes open, just slightly, and through the dim light, her eyes rested on him. She couldn’t see his face, only the curve of his back beneath the blanket, his silver hair faintly tousled against the pillow. It was a comfort, oddly. He seemed more relaxed now, more so than she’d seen him before. Maybe it was the mead. Maybe it was the bed. Maybe it was something else.

  Lyra let her eyes drift shut again, her hand curling lightly in the sheets near her chest. The cold beside her hadn’t receded - but she no longer found it unwelcoming. Just unfamiliar. Like a silence that hadn’t yet learned how to speak.

  And strangely, that was something Lyra found she could rest beside, feeling herself finally slip into sleep.

  ??

  The dream came gently - no sharp edges, no whispers of danger or shadow. It unfolded with the warmth of a half-remembered melody, soft and slow, like silk drawn across skin.

  Lyra stood in a sunlit field, the sky overhead a soft, painted blue, dappled with drifting clouds. Wildflowers blanketed the earth in waves of gold and lavender, swaying with the breeze. Her armour was gone. She wore linen - light and untethered - and her boots were off, bare feet pressed into the soft soil. The warmth of the sun kissed her shoulders, and the air smelled of summer and lilacs.

  She laughed - soft, unforced - and a second voice joined hers.

  She didn’t see her, not directly. Just felt her. The presence beside her in the dream was as familiar as her own breath. A figure whose hand found hers without needing to look, whose steps moved in rhythm with her own. There was no crown, no titles here. No walls between them. Only peace. Laughter. A secret, unspoken understanding.

  Stay here, she thought. Just a little longer.

  The dream blurred like watercolours at the edges as warmth deepened into stillness, and the sounds faded to the steady, rhythmic hush of breath.

  And then-

  Lyra stirred.

  The room was dim, early light filtering in through the cracked shutter. The scent of old wood and linen filled her nose, mingled faintly with the warmth of skin. Her body was heavy with sleep, limbs tangled in the sheets, the slow fog of comfort still clinging to her thoughts. She shifted slightly - then paused.

  There was someone in her arms.

  Not just beside her. Curled against her. Her arm draped across a slim frame, fingers resting lightly over a narrow waist. Strands of silver hair tickled her cheek, soft against her skin. The warmth of the blanket mingled with the faint, inescapable chill of the body she held. But in that first, dream-heavy breath, her mind supplied only one answer.

  She smiled, eyes still closed, and pulled the figure closer with unconscious tenderness.

  “Good morning, Princess,” she murmured.

  The words left her lips without hesitation, soft and fond, laced with an affection so well-worn it came before thought.

  The figure in her arms shifted, comfortable. Warm. Korie hadn't felt such warmth in decades; a strong figure with their arms around his waist, their soft breath against his nape, puffs against snow white curls. His dreams were rarely so altruistic as to give him the comfort he often seeked by grasping pillows and sheets. His muscles relaxed, body melting back against the shape wrapped around him, knees pulling up close to his chest, feet tangled together.

  He hardly moved at the words, unaware of who spoke them. He more felt them rather than heard, the gentle exhale of a breath against his scalp, an intimate whisper. The sort that weren't for the ears of anyone but a lover. His vision was still soft around the edges from his cozy, drink-heavy sleep. He stretched his shoulder a little, inhaling deeply. The words ran goosebumps down his spine, hairs standing on end from the sickly sweet tone, the pure adoration. Princess.

  Princess?

  He blinked, gaining awareness all at once. Startled. He raised himself on his side a little, turning his head over his shoulder to meet her eyes. He wasn't dreaming. He was not dreaming, and there was a woman wrapped around him, her hands gently cradling his waist and wrapped around his abdomen like he was a national treasure, and her name was Lyra. He stared into her eyes, the pits of black that were her pupils, and the silence was so deafening that his ears began to ring like church bells.

  Reality hit Lyra like a blade to the ribs. Sudden, deep, and cold.

  Not Princess.

  Korie.

  The haze of dreams - warm and golden, a lull of safety - vanished in an instant. Awareness struck with the violence of a storm, flooding her limbs with sharp, electric adrenaline. Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and chest as she jerked back, her arm recoiling so fast it tangled in the sheets. What she’d touched hadn’t been warm. It hadn’t been familiar. It had been cold - startlingly, unmistakably cold.

  And he wasn't Princess.

  Many things happened all at once. First, Korie lit up like an active alarm, lights flooding over his skin and firing with an aggressive sort of embarrassment that turned his skin ice cool. A living lighthouse, he was, lacking entirely in its control as the lights spun around and around for all in sight to witness.

  Second, they flinched away from each other. It was a reaction so instinctive, so visceral that Korie's insides shuddered, muscles tensed, the reaction of a man being shot rather than cuddled. Her arms slid away from around his waist, meeting the same urgency.

  Third, Korie slid off the bed, nearly hit his head on the edge of the nightstand and landed on his left arm, letting out an oof as the wind got knocked out of him. There was no pain for a few moments, simply shock and confusion as his heart thrummed a quick beat. A sharp ache flooded his senses, his elbow being stabbed in waves. He grimaced. He then turned onto his back and layed on the wooden planks of the floor for just a moment.

  Princess.

  The more he thought about it, the more obnoxious the lights dancing on his cheeks and ears got. He sat up despite the protest of his elbow, peeking over the bed to check what was happening, why it was happening, and how they got in that situation in the first place. He had not moved a muscle the whole night. No, he truly hadn't; he'd still been laying there at the very edge, same as when he'd gone to sleep in the first place. All that had changed was Lyra, her body flush against him, her lips whispering such charming words in his hair as though she was another person entirely. As though he was another person entirely.

  They both gawked at each other, a tense silence stretching between them. Princess? He wanted to ask, because who in the hells was princess? He was not princess, that much he knew. But then he came to the realization that maybe it wouldn't be his wisest decision to ask about who she'd been thinking about when she... said that. With a tone sweet as honey. Something about it sent warmth curling through his stomach, like a rising hot spring. Something he needed to press down deep, before it swallowed him whole.

  There were no words he could speak that would not escalate the situation in an awkward manner, so he spoke none at all. "Uh," He made an unintelligent sound instead, tall in his throat, a pitch high and painful but only due to its juvenile form of embarrassment.

  Korie dropped off the edge of the bed, halfway between shame and stunned silence, as if he were still trying to understand how he’d ended up there. He wasn’t even properly sitting; more like half-lurched upright, having clearly tumbled to the floor in his panic. His limbs looked disjointed, like they’d betrayed him, and his ice-glinting freckles shimmered with nervous energy, blinking like stars caught mid-fall. His mouth opened and closed once, then again, before he managed a sound - low and strangled, something between a cough and a stammer. It was an awkward, small noise. Uncertain. Embarrassed.

  It might’ve made her laugh, once. In a different time. In a different life. But Lyra wasn’t laughing now.

  She was staring. Frozen.

  Korie didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The question hung in the stillness between them, thick and stifling. She felt it in his posture, in the tilt of his shoulders, in the subtle tension that radiated off him like a held breath. He didn’t need to ask. She already knew what he wanted to say.

  Her stomach churned.

  The weight of her words settled like lead in her gut, heavy with humiliation. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears - loud, furious, traitorous - as though it could outrun the moment if it just moved fast enough. But it couldn’t. Nothing could. The soft tone she’d used still rang in the air, ghosting between them like a warmth that no longer belonged. The tenderness in her voice, the way she’d reached out - it was all there, exposed in the open like a wound.

  Lyra felt bare. Stripped of every defence she’d built so carefully over the years. Her walls had crumbled in the fog of sleep, and now all that remained was the raw truth of it: the ache she hadn’t banished, the name that lived under her tongue like a prayer she hadn’t let die.

  Princess.

  Not him.

  Not this place. Not this room. Not now.

  She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She could feel the blush rising to her cheeks - hot and uninvited - and it only added to the storm building behind her eyes. She wanted to throw a dagger through the silence, to carve a hole big enough to crawl into and disappear.

  But she couldn’t vanish.

  So instead, she forced it all down. Every feeling. Every flicker of warmth, every fragile echo of the dream she’d woken from. She shoved them into the hollow of her stomach, sealed them in tight beneath a practiced layer of ice, and locked the door. There would be no softness now.

  Her expression hardened into something unrecognizable - smooth, cool, unreadable. She lifted her chin and finally looked at him, really looked at him. His hair was still tousled from where he’d slept too close to the edge. His shirt had twisted around his frame, rumpled and askew. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

  There was something almost innocent in the way he stood there. Awkward. As if this entire moment had caught him off guard just as much as it had her.

  But Lyra didn’t let herself feel anything about that.

  She narrowed her eyes into a quiet warning - sharp as flint, cold as moonlight - and let her voice cut through the silence like a blade.

  “This,” she said, every syllable slow and flat, “never happened.”

  Lyra's voice teared straight through the silence, cold. Intimidating.

  Korie's lip wobbled, holding back a laugh with everything in his power.

  He ought to refuse such an attitude from someone who called their lover princess in their sleep, her tone utterly fond and sweet.

  Lyra's glare was sharp enough to cut, her brows knitted so tightly they cast shadows over her cold, green eyes. Her jaw was locked, tension rippling down her neck like a coiled spring ready to snap. There was nothing behind her stare, no warmth, no hesitation, just a quiet, simmering fury that dared him to take one step too far. He swallowed, suddenly certain that if he pushed her now, he wouldn't just earn a bruise or two; he’d regret it. Or so she wanted him to feel. Either way, it was working. Damn soldier.

  "Got it," He spoke, his tone meek. He could accept a bit of attitude. Just this once.

  Lyra didn’t look at him again.

  Even as he muttered his reply - quiet, almost sheepish - Lyra turned her back to him, muscles still coiled tight beneath her skin. She stood for a beat longer than necessary, letting the tension hang, letting the silence settle like ash. Let him stew in it, she thought. Let him remember the line she’d drawn and how sharp it could be.

  This never happened.

  Her own words echoed like a curse as she turned away and crossed the room.

  The moment the distance widened, her body moved on instinct, slipping into the rhythm of routine - the motions she knew, the armour she wore. It was always easier that way. Not thinking. Just doing. Just becoming again what the world expected of her.

  Her breastplate came first, and she drew it against her chest like a shield not just for her body, but for her thoughts. She fastened the straps with practiced ease, the leather pulling snug against the curve of her ribs, grounding her. Greaves next, then gauntlets. Every buckle, every clasp, every plate slid into place with a quiet, satisfying finality. The weight of it was familiar. Steady. Like old scars she knew the shape of. With each piece, she layered herself in silence, finishing off by tying the royal armband back around her arm.

  Then came her hair.

  She sat before the cracked mirror, its surface slightly warped from travel and time. She didn’t bother smoothing the mess of waves - she only separated the strands with brisk, methodical movements, her fingers moving swiftly as she pulled the length over one shoulder and began to weave it into a tight plait. Her scalp still tingled faintly from sleep, or perhaps from the ghost of a dream she'd rather forget.

  The title still ached behind her ribs. That voice she’d used.

  Princess.

  Her hands faltered for half a heartbeat.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. Hard.

  No. Not now. Not ever again.

  Lyra resumed the braid, fingers a little rougher this time, yanking the strands with more force than necessary. She tied it off with a worn leather strip and rose to her feet in one smooth motion, the finality of it like a blade slamming back into its sheath. She refused to look at Korie.

  She didn’t need softness.

  She needed to be sharp. Cold. Untouchable.

  The soldier.

  By the time she finished buckling her sword at her hip, her expression had returned to its usual state - blank and unreadable, carved from quiet stone. Whatever had happened that morning, whatever look she might’ve worn while wrapped in sleep - it was gone now. Gone and buried beneath the steel. Only then did she dare to glance at the elf, who was just finishing getting ready himself.

  "Let's go."