Lyria's POV
A soft breeze brushed against my face as I walked, carrying with it the scents of old stone, burnt wood, and something faintly metallic—a scent I could never quite forget.
The elders' quarters loomed ahead, a series of worn, moss-covered buildings that had been my cage for as long as I could remember. Even before my feet fully crossed onto the grounds, a heavy wave of nostalgia slammed into me, stealing my breath.
How many mornings had I woken to the sharp crack of a whip against stone? How many nights had I cried silently, scrubbing bloodstains from the elders’ dining hall floors, my own tears mixing with the grime?
I drew a slow, steadying breath, lifting my chin as I approached. That was another life. Another Lyria.
The soft patter of footsteps broke the heavy quiet, and I spotted some of the elders bustling about. Their eyes caught mine. For the first few seconds, none of them said a word—none spat curses or threw stones like they used to.
Their silence was louder than
