Do you want to come?

If there was anything more tedious than waiting, it was pretending you weren't waiting at all.

I sat curled in the window seat, a heavy book propped open on my knees, trying to look absorbed in the convoluted history of southern sea trade. In truth, the words swam before my eyes, and my thoughts wandered back to Lyra.

I told myself I didn't care when she'd return. I told myself I wasn't worried, that her absence was a relief.

But the empty ache in the room made a liar of me. I had spent the afternoon drifting through the palace like a ghost: the library had lost its charm, the gardens seemed too bright, and the endless corridors only amplified my restlessness.

I was so bored I'd begun to mentally compose a list of all the things I'd rather be doing than sitting alone—fighting pirates, scaling cliffs, even, gods help me, attending one of the southern queens' endless tea parties.

Anything but this.

The door banged open with little ceremony. I startled, nearly dropping my book, and there she was: Lyra, hair windblown, shirt still a bit rumpled, boots leaving faint dusty prints on the carpet.

She paused in the doorway, looking as though she'd just fought a hurricane and won.

She hesitated. "I'm back."

I blinked, closing my book with deliberate calm. "I can see that."

She hovered in the entryway, hands stuffed awkwardly into her pockets, gaze flickering everywhere but my face.

For a second, I thought she might actually say something—something important, something that might explain the tension that hummed between us like a wire ready to snap.

Instead, she only muttered, "The mission went well. Pirates dealt with. Nothing interesting."

"Glad to hear it," I said, my tone clipped, hiding the relief that threatened to betray me.

An awkward silence stretched between us.

She seemed… off. Usually she strode in like she owned the place, but tonight she lingered, shoulders tight, jaw working as if she wanted to speak and couldn't find the words.

I waited, pretending to read as she crossed to the dresser and rummaged for her things.

Then, without warning, she disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

I heard the clatter of her sword against the tiles, the rush of water as she filled the tub, the quiet splash as she stepped in. The thin wall did nothing to mask the sound—the splash, the sigh, the faint groan of tired muscles unwinding.

I kept my eyes glued to my book, but my mind was a thousand miles away. Why did it bother me, the thought of her in there, alone, washing away the day's battle?

Why did it feel so different now, after last night, after the awkward morning that neither of us wanted to acknowledge?

Eventually, the water stopped. There was a quiet shuffle as Lyra changed—thankfully behind a closed door—and then the bathroom opened again.

She emerged in a simple linen shirt and dark trousers, hair still damp, skin flushed from the heat. She looked younger, somehow, and for a moment I forgot to be annoyed.

Lyra hesitated in the middle of the room, as if considering escape, then forced herself to speak.

"Uh, so. There's a festival. Tomorrow. The villagers have it every year—music, food, fireworks, all that." She rubbed the back of her neck, eyes darting away from mine.

"The queen said I should ask you if you wanted to visit. With me. Or not. I mean, you don't have to."

I stared at her. She was blushing , as if the idea of inviting me to a village festival was more terrifying than facing a cave full of pirates.

Some childish part of me wanted to say no, just to see her squirm. But the memory of this afternoon of the long hours of silence, the endless monotony overrode my pride.

Anything was better than another day of boredom.

"I suppose I could," I said, careful to sound bored, as if I was being forced into a duty I had no interest in. "I mean, someone needs to ensure you don't get yourself killed dancing with peasants."

Lyra's shoulders eased, and the hint of a grin flashed across her lips. "I'll do my best to survive."

The awkwardness lingered for a beat longer, but this time it felt different not heavy, but charged, like the air before a storm.

She tossed her satchel onto the bed, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of something shiny gold and red peeking from the bag. I squinted. "What's that?"

She froze, then shoved the satchel out of sight with a little too much force. "Just… supplies. The queens are weird about gifts here."

I eyed her, unconvinced, but decided to let it go. For now.

"Well," I said, closing my book and standing, stretching my stiff muscles.

"If we're to attend this festival, I expect you to behave yourself. No fighting, no drinking contests, and absolutely no embarrassing me in front of the southern court."

She snorted. "No promises, Your Highness."

I gathered my things, preparing for bed, but paused at the window. The sky outside was streaked with the last colors of sunset, gold fading to indigo, lanterns flickering to life in the distant village.

Something in my chest tightened—anticipation, maybe, or just the memory of nights spent outside palace walls, when life felt bigger, brighter, more real.

Lyra watched me, arms crossed, her posture softer than usual. "You'll enjoy it. I promise."

I glanced at her over my shoulder, lips twitching despite myself. "I'll hold you to that."

Later, when the lamps were out and the castle had gone quiet, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, mind churning. I could hear Lyra's steady breathing across the room—steady, familiar, and, for the first time in years, oddly comforting.

I told myself I wasn't excited. I told myself it was just an opportunity to escape the palace and do something anything other than be bored. But deep down, I knew better.

Tomorrow would be different. I could feel it already—a change in the air, a shifting of something old and stubborn inside me.

Maybe it was the promise of music and laughter, maybe it was the look in Lyra's eyes, or maybe it was the simple, terrible hope that things between us might finally begin to change.

Whatever it was, I found myself smiling in the dark, heart pounding with the thrill of something new.

I couldn't wait for morning.