Chapter 10
Lyra
The winter market stretched brightly across the center of the village square beneath strings of lanterns and drifting banners. The cold air carried the mingled scents of roasted chestnuts, mulled cider, pine garlands, and fresh bread warm enough to fog the windows of the bakery at the corner.
For the first time in days, Lyra felt some of the tightness in her chest begin to ease beneath the familiar comfort of ordinary life.
Snow crunched steadily beneath boots as villagers moved from stall to stall while their laughter rose warmly through the sharp mountain air.
Children darted between tables with sticky fingers and flushed cheeks.
Iskavard winters were brutal enough to kill travelers who underestimated them, yet the markets always felt strangely alive during the coldest months, as though the people fought back against the harshness simply by filling the square with warmth and noise.
Their flower stall sat near the fountain at the center of the square.
Beckett hovered beside Lyra with the restless excitement of a young kid trying very hard to behave responsibly.
He handed her bouquets from the baskets while she arranged the bundles of winter blooms on the wooden table in neat rows, all carefully bound with twine and evergreen sprigs.
Once everything was set up, Lyra set up a small work area for Beckett.
It had become tradition that he stood proudly behind the display and arranged loose blooms. It brought attention to their booth while it taught him a skill.
She watched as he worked with intense concentration, which soon caught the attention of elderly women who fussed over him affectionately.
“You’ve gotten faster with your wrapping,” one of them told him with a smile.
“Each month you get better with the arrangements,” the other commented.
“I’m better than Lyra now,” he declared immediately.
Lyra snorted softly while tying another bouquet. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence for someone who still ties crooked knots.”
The first woman laughed outright at that and pressed an extra coin into Beckett’s hand before shuffling away with flowers tucked carefully beneath her arm. The sight tugged unexpectedly at Lyra’s chest. This was the life she understood. Simple routines and familiar faces.
More importantly, Beckett felt safe here and made the most of it.
Lyra watched him pocket the coin with exaggerated secrecy before leaning closer to her. “Can I finally get candy now?”
“You’ve been thinking about candy since breakfast.”
“Because breakfast didn’t have candy.”
“That is generally how breakfast works.”
“But I saw the cinnamon drops,” he pressed. “And the caramels. I saw them when we came in.”
Lyra pretended to consider while Beckett watched her with enormous pleading eyes that would have been far less effective if she had not already intended to say yes.
“You can get one of each,” she said finally.
Beckett let out a victorious cheer loud enough to startle nearby shoppers before immediately darting around the table to throw his arms around her waist. “You’re the best.”
“You better remember that.”
She smiled as she handed him a few more coins and watched him disappear eagerly into the crowd toward the confectioner’s stall.
For a while, Lyra almost managed to forget the king entirely, but the unease lingered beneath her skin. The steady rhythm of the market softened it enough that she finally stopped scanning the crowd every few seconds for possible threats.
Which was why the silence struck her so hard when it came.
Not true silence, but the sudden unnatural thinning of noise that spread through the square in slow ripples as conversations faltered one by one and laughter died abruptly beneath a growing tension that rolled across the market like the first warning crack of breaking ice.
Lyra looked up instinctively. Royal guards were forcing their way through the crowd.
Fear hit her instantly. There were six of them dressed in royal colors with heavy winter cloaks. Villagers hurried backward to clear a path, and every instinct in her body tightened at once when she realized they were coming directly toward her stall.
Beckett had just returned clutching a paper bag with his sweet treats, but he froze beside her the moment he noticed the guards approaching.
The lead guard stopped only a few feet away. His face remained cold and unreadable. “You harbored the king?”
“Yes.” Her heart sank a bit further even though it struck her that they didn’t even know her name.
“By order of the crown, you are under arrest for the attempted poisoning of the king.”
The words struck her so hard they barely seemed real at first. The entire square erupted immediately.
“What?”
“That’s impossible.”
“She would never…”
Several villagers began protesting loudly while Beckett stared up at the soldiers in open confusion, the candy bag forgotten as it slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. Panic spread across his face.
Lyra herself could barely process what she had heard.
“Poisoning?” she repeated in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
“You will come with us peacefully.”
“I saved his life,” she snapped, horror rapidly turning to anger. “If the king was poisoned, it was before I found him.”
“You will come now.”
The guards refused to explain anything further. Their silence felt cold and deliberate in a way that made dread unfurl in her gut.
Had Mikael awakened? Had Dag accused her?
Or worse, had whoever actually administered the poison figured out the easiest solution to cover their tracks was blaming the strange woman who lived alone outside the village?
Beside her, Beckett’s breaths came quick and he whimpered. Lyra looked toward him just as one of the guards stepped forward and grabbed her wrist. Everything shattered after that.
Beckett bolted.
“Beckett!!”
Lyra lunged instinctively toward him, but the soldier’s grip tightened painfully and yanked her backward hard enough to nearly knock her off balance. Panic exploded through her chest.
“Stop!” she shouted desperately. “Beckett! Don’t run!”
But terror had already taken hold of him.
The crowd erupted into chaos as Beckett darted between startled villagers, his small figure weaving frantically through market stalls.
“Beckett!” Lyra screamed again as she struggled violently against the guard holding her. “Please, someone get him!”
She had one final glimpse of the little boy as he vanished near the bakery through the sea of moving bodies. Then he was gone. A sickening emptiness opened inside her so suddenly she could barely breathe.
“Please,” she said hoarsely as she twisted toward the guards, genuine panic breaking through every ounce of restraint she possessed. “He’s just a child. I need to find him.”
No one listened.
Villagers shouted angrily as the guards dragged her through the square, but their voices blurred together beneath the roaring panic filling her ears. All she could think about was Beckett alone somewhere in the freezing streets, frightened and running with no idea where to go.
By the time they forced her into the prison transport that waited at the edge of the village, Lyra was shaking hard enough that the chains around her wrists rattled softly.
The journey to the castle passed in a frozen haze of snow, fear, and disbelief while the accusation repeated endlessly through her mind.
Poisoning the king.
The irony of it made her feel almost sick. She had protected him, saved his life. And now she was being dragged away in chains for it.
The castle towers emerged near dusk through the falling snow. It jutted up against the fading sky and hatred surged through her at the sight of it. Everything in her life had begun unraveling the moment she dug Mikael out of the snow.
The dungeon smelled of damp stone, rust, and old smoke. A guard shoved her into the cell hard enough that she stumbled before she caught herself against the wall. Pain flared through her shoulder as the iron door slammed shut behind her.
“You can’t hold me without proof,” she snapped as she spun back toward the bars. “You can’t accuse me of poisoning him when I was the one trying to keep him alive.”
The guard refused to meet her eyes while he locked the door. Footsteps faded down the corridor until she was left alone with nothing but cold stone surrounding her. For one brief moment, anger burned hotter than fear.
Then she thought of Beckett again.
She pressed her trembling hands against her face and forced herself to breathe through the terror that threatened to consume her.
She had no idea where he was now, whether someone had found him, or whether he was hiding somewhere freezing and frightened.
And there was nothing she could do about any of it.
For the first time in years, Lyra felt truly helpless.
And somewhere deep beneath the fear and anger, another terrible realization continued echoing relentlessly through her mind.
It wasn’t over.
Whatever darkness had followed Mikael out of the mountains had finally reached her too.