Chapter 6: The Twilight Prison

Lyria's first month in exile smelled of damp wool and regret.

The cloak they'd given her—stiff with unfamiliar lye—chafed at her neck whenever she turned her head. The Twilight Realm's eternal dusk played tricks on her eyes; she kept misjudging steps, expecting sunlight that never came.

Tonight's supper sat congealing on the obsidian table: some pale root vegetable mashed into a paste that clung to the roof of her mouth. Across the hall, the other Moonborn ate in perfect silence. Their eyes slid away when she reached for her water glass.

"You'll adjust," said High Oracle Neryth. Her knuckles made dry, clicking sounds as she stirred honey into her tea. The smell should have been comforting—it was the same blend Lyria's mother used to make. But this honey carried the faint metallic tang of the Twilight Realm's strange bees.

Lyria's scar itched. She scratched at it absently, then froze when she realized—the pain wasn't hers. Somewhere beyond the Veil, Aric had clenched that hand.

The glass in her fingers shattered.

Shards bit into her palm as the hall erupted in gasps. Blood dripped onto the untouched food, blooming like poppies in the white mash.

Neryth sighed. "Clean that up before it stains the stone."

Later, in the too-quiet dark of her cell-like room, Lyria pressed her bleeding hand to the cold mirror. The surface rippled slightly—not enough to see through, but enough to feel the faintest hum of... something.

She dreamt of Aric that night. Not of their happier days beneath the Weirwood, but of the moment she'd left him—the exact second when his grip had slackened, when his eyes had gone from desperate to devastated.

When she woke screaming, the entire fortress trembled. Somewhere in the gardens, a tree split clean down the middle.

No one came to check on her.