She didn't wait for dusk.
She dressed in silence, bound her hair at the nape of her neck, slipped a blade into her boot, and walked straight to the Hall of Records as the sun rose—uncalled, unescorted, unafraid.
No cloak. No guards.
Just fury wrapped in flesh.
The guards saw her coming.
They stood tall. Still.
The closer she got, the heavier the air became. Power hummed beneath her skin like a war drum, steady and ancient. She let it rise. Let it speak.
The second she stepped onto the marble steps, one of the guards stepped forward, raising a hand as if that meant something to her.
"You're not permitted—"
Lyra didn't give him the chance to finish.
Her fist connected with his throat in a clean, brutal motion. He choked, stumbling backward, and before the second guard could even react, she was already moving.
She swept his legs from under him, sent him crashing to the ground, and shoved the heel of her boot against his chest.
He reached for his weapon.
She drove her dagger through the stone beside his head, the tip singing as it sank deep.
"Try that again," she said coolly, "and I'll see how well you scream with your lungs outside your body."
The first guard coughed violently behind her, crawling away.
Good.
Let them remember this.
She pulled the dagger free with a clean, brutal twist and walked through the tall wooden doors without a backward glance.
The Hall of Records was colder than she expected.
Vaulted ceilings. Endless rows of scrolls and ledgers. Everything neat. Ordered. Lifeless.
A library designed to keep things buried.
Three scribes stood behind a long stone desk, draped in pale gray robes and smug certainty.
One of them—gray-bearded, sunken-eyed—stepped forward, lifting a hand.
"This archive is sealed to unauthorized ranks," he said. "If you do not turn back, I will—"
She slammed her dagger down between his fingers.
The blade sunk deep into the wood. He gasped.
"Do it," she whispered. "Say one more word and I'll leave you with fewer fingers than rules."
His mouth worked in silence.
The mark beneath her collarbone began to pulse, responding to the room like it was scenting prey.
Another scribe, younger—early twenties, ink-stained fingers and a sharp mouth he hadn't yet learned to hide—stood slowly from his stool.
"I know who you are," he said.
"Do you?"
He nodded once. "The she-marked. The red-blooded flame."
"What's your name?"
"Talin."
"Well, Talin," she said, voice a slow cut, "show me everything this place tried to bury. I want the old blood prophecies. Erased names. Any record they sealed behind a Council signature."
The bearded elder paled. "Those archives are sacred."
Lyra didn't even glance at him.
"I'm not asking."
The candles above them dimmed.
The air around her crackled.
Talin held her gaze a second longer… then turned and motioned her forward.
"This way."
They moved in silence, past shelves that grew older and darker the deeper they descended.
Books became scrolls.
Scrolls became clay.
And eventually, they reached a circular room lined with blackwood cabinets and a long, dust-laced granite table.
Talin moved carefully, unlocking a drawer hidden beneath a carved panel. His hands trembled slightly.
"I've only read it once," he said. "Even holding it makes the older scribes panic."
He pulled out a scroll wrapped in black ribbon.
Lyra unbound it herself.
The parchment crackled with age, but the ink remained rich and red.
She read aloud.
She who bears the Five shall be their flame.She who binds the bond shall choose ruin or rebirth.The pack will fall for her. But only one will bleed for her.
Her breath caught, but she didn't look away.
Not from the words.
Not from what they meant.
Talin pulled out a second scroll—this one marked only with a single sigil: a crescent moon in faded gold wax.
He unrolled it slowly, with reverence.
"There's no title," he whispered. "But there's a name."
The air shifted.
Time seemed to hesitate.
Lyra stepped forward, eyes tracing the uneven lines… until they landed on the signature at the bottom.
Elaria Vale.
Her mother.
She reeled back as if struck.
"No one knew," she murmured. "She never told me—"
Talin shook his head. "She was erased. Deliberately. Pages purged. Bloodline sealed. This scroll survived because someone hid it."
Lyra clenched her fists at her sides.
Heat rose under her skin. The mark flared so hot she swore it might sear through her tunic.
"I need more," she said. "Anything tied to her. Everything they've kept locked away."
She heard his footsteps before she saw him.
Lucien.
Of course.
His voice was soft, but heavy with tension.
"I thought I'd find you here."
Lyra didn't turn.
Didn't need to.
She stood taller, not afraid—not anymore.
"She was like me," she said. "She was more than you deserved. And she died because of it."
Lucien stepped closer. "She was she-marked?"
"She was dangerous. They didn't want her to bear the Five. They wanted her gone."
He didn't argue.
Didn't posture.
And that, somehow, was worse.
"She was trying to protect me," Lyra whispered. "And I hated her for hiding the truth."
She turned.
Met his eyes.
"So now I'll burn the lies you tried to dress in tradition."
Lucien looked at her then—not like a possession. Not even like an obsession.
Like a reckoning.
"You're not hers," he said softly.
"I am," Lyra said, stepping forward, "and so much worse."
Talin cleared his throat quietly.
"There's a vault," he said. "Sealed with blood magic. Tied to the first she-marked. They say she buried something inside it before she died."
Lyra's breath slowed.
"What kind of something?"
"No one knows," Talin replied. "But the mark recognizes the vault. And only blood like hers—or yours—can open it."
Lucien said nothing.
He simply watched as Lyra turned back to the scroll bearing her mother's name.
And smiled.
🖤 Mini-Scene: The Vault Beneath the Silence
The vault was hidden behind a wall of stone carved with a wolf's open maw.
No lock.
No door.
Just a thin groove in the floor… waiting.
Talin stood back as Lyra stepped forward, uncertain, heart pounding.
She stared at the groove—barely wider than a blade—and reached for her dagger.
She didn't hesitate.
Just sliced her palm.
Blood dripped down her fingers and into the waiting stone.
The moment it hit, the ground trembled.
Runes ignited in red, then gold, then blinding white. The wall split open with a hiss of old magic, dust and silence pouring from the space beyond.
Lyra stepped inside.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Only fire in her blood… and a voice, faint but familiar, echoing from the dark.
"Daughter of ruin… welcome home."