Chapter 3 Lyria
LYRIA
The garden looks wrong when it’s perfect. It’s too clean. Too precise. I notice it before anyone else on the work crew. I suspect sorcery may have been involved.
Every hedge trimmed into exact lines. Every bed cleared of anything that doesn’t belong—no stray growth, no uneven edges, no small, stubborn defiance of nature trying to push through.
Every hedge trimmed into exact lines. Every bed cleared of anything that doesn’t belong—no stray growth, no uneven edges, no small, stubborn defiance of nature trying to push through.
It doesn’t breathe like this. It’s no longer a living place but something the dark elves have sculpted to their liking.
Move,” Fenrix snaps, and I shift without looking at him, already hauling another bucket across the path. The water sloshes against the sides, cold droplets splashing over my hands and soaking into my sleeves.
“You’re behind,” he adds, falling into step beside me like I invited him.
“I’m not,” I say.
“You are.”
Anger flares up inside of me, hot like the sun.
“I’m not.”
There’s a pause while he sucks in air through his nostrils, eyes widening. I’ve given him all the excuses he needs to administer a beating. Yet, his hand doesn’t stray near his whip.
Wouldn’t want blood to get on the plants, now would we?
Instead, he clicks his tongue, amused.
“You’re slower than the others.” He gestures at my fellow workers, who cringe at the attention.
“That’s because I’m fixing their mistakes.”
That earns me a look. Sharp. Brief. Then, a smirk stretches over his cruel lips.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You almost sounded like one of us.”
“By all the gods, should hope…” I blurt, stopping short of finishing the sentence.
“Yes, you should hope,” he says snidely. “I wonder if the leeches in the swamps yearn to be something more, like a bird flying through the sky instead of, well, a parasite.”
I don’t answer. I don’t dare press my luck any more than I already have. I pour the water instead, letting it sink deep into the roots of the plants lining the central path. These ones matter more. These ones will be seen.
The rest—The rest just have to survive. Like me.
“There will be a Royal gathering this evening,” Fenrix says after a moment, like he’s offering me something I should be grateful for.
I keep working as I reply.
“I heard.”
“Did you?” he asks. “Or are you just pretending you’re not the last to know again?”
I press my fingers into the soil, testing the moisture, adjusting the angle of a stem that’s leaning too far toward the light.
“I don’t need to know,” I say.
He huffs a quiet laugh.
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes my shoulders tighten.
I move to the next row.
The air smells different today. Not just dirt and water and the faint metallic tang that always lingers near the estate walls—but something sharper. Polished stone. Oils. Perfume carried faintly from the manor.
Preparation. Not for us. For them. The dark elf nobles and their wicked senses of humor.
“Make sure the pool’s clear,” Fenrix calls out, louder now, addressing the others. “No debris shall be left behind. If I see a single leaf out of place I’ll root out your fingernails and replace them with tacks.”
I shift toward the reflecting pool, my steps automatic. The surface is still, a long stretch of dark glass cutting through the garden. It mirrors everything—the hedges, the sky, the looming structure of the manor behind it.
And anything out of place. I kneel at the edge, skimming my fingers just above the surface, catching a stray petal before it drifts too far. Twisted by sorcery, the petal is anything but soft. It’s Cold. Sharp. It bites into my skin, grounding me in the present.
“Don’t fall in,” someone mutters behind me.
A few quiet laughs follow.
I don’t turn.
“If I do,” I say, “I’ll take you with me.”
That earns a sharper laugh.
“Careful, Cutter,” Fenrix calls. “You’re getting bold.”
No. I’m getting tired. There’s a difference.
I straighten, wiping my damp hands against my skirt, and step back from the water. My reflection wavers, breaks apart as the surface ripples, then settles again into something still and controlled.
Like everything else here.
By midday, the pressure has settled into my bones. Every movement is watched more closely. Every mistake—real or imagined—feels heavier. The overseers pass through more frequently, their eyes sharper, their patience thinner.
“Faster,” one of them snaps as I move between rows. “We don’t have all day.”
I bite back the response that rises too quickly and nod instead.
“Yes, sir.”
Always yes. No matter how it twists my guts.
The sun shifts higher, then begins its slow descent, the light changing from that dull, flat silver into something colder, sharper. Shadows stretch longer across the paths, cutting through the neat symmetry of the garden.
And then I hear them. Voices. Not the usual ones I’ve grown accustomed to in the household. Smoother. More…measured.
I still my movement. Just for a second. Then I move again, slower now, quieter, letting the rhythm of my work mask the way I angle myself closer to the outer edge of the garden, where the hedges grow higher and the path curves toward one of the lesser entrances.
The voices drift through the leaves.
“…unstable.”
My hands keep moving, fingers brushing dirt from the base of a plant, adjusting a leaf that doesn’t need adjusting. But I listen.
“He’s always been that way,” another voice says. Female. Light, but edged. “The question is whether it’s gotten worse.”
A soft hum follows.
“His father won’t tolerate it much longer.”
Of course he won’t.
I shift slightly, crouching lower, using the angle of the hedge to block me from view. The leaves rustle faintly against my sleeve. I catch a flash of embroidered silk sleeve, a wineglass held in a slender fingered hand.
“Or he’ll use it,” the first voice replies. “Instability can be…useful.”
A quiet laugh ripples forth. Guarded, subtle, like claws hidden beneath velvet.
“Until it outlives its usefulness. Then it is simply a burden”
The words settle heavy as lead in my gut. I don’t have to hear his name to know who they’re talking about.
Verginyon.
I keep my head down.Keep my breathing even while anxiety gnaws at me like a hungry mouse. What could I do, anyway? I have no agency. No way to help Verr, even if he would accept it from a lesser being.
“Have you seen him lately?” the second voice asks.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“And?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“He’s different.”
That makes something in my chest tighten.
“How?”
“I’m not sure yet. His gaze doesn’t flit about like a spark in search of tinder.”
Footsteps shift. Fabric brushes softly against stone. I swallow the lump in my throat and keep working.
“But he’s watching more than he used to,” the voice continues. “Not just reacting. Watching. Thinking, perhaps.”
“That won’t last,” the female voice says. “It never does.”
“No,” the first agrees softly. “It doesn’t. Some elves just have a bit too much fire in their blood. Perhaps the Thirteen took too much of an interest in him. Meant to do great things, but likely to burn out like a candle under a bellow torch.”
The footsteps begin to move away, their voices fading with them.
“…at the gathering…”
“…Kholara won’t pass up a chance to—”
“…we’ll see…”
The rest dissolves into distance.
I stay where I am a moment longer, my pulse steady but heavier than it was before.
Unstable. A burden. Burning out rather than fading away. They talk about him like he’s already decided on his fate.
I shake the thought off, pushing it down where it belongs.
Not my concern. Not my problem. What do I care about some Ink-blooded, knife-eared noble? I should care what happens to him because he sometimes chooses not to beat the servants? Because he has great shoulders and eyes that could immolate a phoenix--
“Cutter.”
Fenrix’s voice snaps me back. The sweat on my brow has more than fear as its font. I straighten immediately, forcing a look of placid weariness on my face.
“Yes?”
He’s closer than I expected. Of course he is.
“Where were you just now?” he asks.
“Doing my job.”
“Mm.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“Stay where you’re supposed to,” he says, stepping closer. “You don’t want to be seen wandering when the nobles start arriving.”
“I wasn’t wandering.”
He leans in slightly, just enough that his shadow cuts across my hands.
“Then don’t look like you are.”
My jaw tightens. “I don’t follow you.”
He studies me for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then—
“Stay invisible,” he says quietly. “You understand?”
I meet his gaze. Just for a second.
“I always do.”
“Do you?” he asks softly.
My fingers curl slightly against my palm, the gritty dirt crumbling.
“I understand, Overseer.”
“Good. You are a smart one--perhaps too smart. It is good to avoid drawing their attention.”
He straightens, stepping back.
“Because they’re not like me,” he adds, almost casually. “They lack even a modicum of mercy for your kind. They will not care how efficient your labors, if they decide your death is necessary--or merely entertaining.”
I know all of this already.vBut I don’t say that.
He turns and walks off, already calling orders to someone else.
I exhale slowly, letting the tension ease just enough that I can move again. Stay invisible. I’ve been doing that my whole life.
And yet—
My gaze drifts, unbidden, toward the main path. He’s there.
Of course he is.
Verr moves through the garden like it belongs to him—which it does—but there’s something else in it, something sharper than the other nobles who pass through these paths like they’re decorations instead of space.
He doesn’t just walk. He stalks. Like a carnivore searching for fresh meat to sink his teeth into. .
His gaze moves before he does, sweeping across the garden, catching on things I wouldn’t expect him to notice—the positioning of workers, the spacing between rows, the guards at the edges. Nothing about it is casual.
Nothing about him is.
I lower my head immediately, forcing my attention back to the plants in front of me.
Don’t look.
Don’t—
I feel it anyway. That shift. That awareness. Like something has turned in my direction without moving. My shoulders go still. Just for a second.
Then I force myself to keep working, fingers steady as I adjust a stem that doesn’t need adjusting, brush dirt from leaves that are already clean.
He’s not looking at me.
He can’t be.
There’s no reason for him to—
Footsteps, getting closer. My pulse ticks once, hard. Then—
They pass.
The air shifts as he moves by, the faint scent of metal and something darker trailing behind him. Not blood. Not quite. Power? Not that, either. Something I cannot name. I don’t look up. I don’t dare. But I know. I know he noticed.
Even if he pretends he didn’t.
Even if I pretend I didn’t.
The space he leaves behind feels different. Sharper. Like something has been marked. I exhale slowly, forcing my hands back into motion.
This is nothing.
It has to be nothing.
I press my fingers harder into the soil, grounding myself in the weight of it, the texture, the reality of something that doesn’t change just because someone powerful decided to look.
I could leave. The thought comes suddenly. I could just leave. I’m not an indenture, or a slave, or a prisoner. I’m paid weekly--and can technically leave whenever I wish.
Slip through the gap near the outer wall when the patrol shifts. Follow the road back toward the villages. Find my way home before the next quota collection—
And then what?
They’d starve. My mother and father, and anyone else they help in the community with the meager silver I send home. The coin I send barely keeps them from starvation as it is. Without it—
I exhale slowly, the thought collapsing in on itself. There is no leaving. Not really. Not for me.
“Cutter!”
I look up at the sound of the overseer’s voice.
“Yes?”
“Move,” Fenrix snaps. “You’re needed on the far side. Some noblemen did not care for the vintage and poured it into Lord Maltos’ prized Death Blossoms. If they don’t survive, I’ll see your head on a pole”
I nod, already shifting, already stepping back into the rhythm of the work. Because that’s what this is. Work. Survival. Nothing more.
Nothing else.
Even if the way he looked at me—
No. It doesn’t matter.
It can’t.