Chapter 7
LYRIA
The gardens smell like wet stone and crushed leaves, like something trying very hard to remain alive under constant supervision, and I notice it immediately—not because the scent itself is unusual, since this place is always damp, always curated, always just slightly too perfect, but because I am noticing everything now with a kind of sharp, defensive clarity that wasn’t there before.
The air presses differently against my skin, the sound of water trickling through the irrigation channels feels louder than it should, and even the faint hum of the estate’s shielding systems seems to vibrate closer to my bones, as though my senses have been forced into a heightened state I cannot turn off.
Alive. That’s the word that keeps circling in my head, unwanted and insistent, because I am alive, and I should not be.
My hands tremble slightly as I kneel in the soil, fingers pressing into the dark, rich earth at the base of a flowering vine that I have pruned a hundred times before, the leaves smooth beneath my fingertips, cool with residual moisture, releasing a faint green scent—clean, almost sweet—when I pinch away a dead tendril. This should feel normal. It doesn’t.
There are guards now, and I do not look at them directly, because I have learned that looking too much reads as defiance and looking too little reads as fear, and both get you noticed, but I feel them anyway—two at the far edge of the garden walkway, armored silhouettes against pale stone, their presence like a shadow cast across everything I touch.
They are not here for the garden.
They are here for me.
“Keep your hands steady,” I murmur under my breath, as if I am correcting a younger version of myself who didn’t yet understand how quickly things could change. “You’re not dying. You’re pruning.”
The words sound ridiculous even to me, but I cling to them anyway as the gravel behind me crunches softly beneath approaching footsteps.
I do not turn immediately. I finish trimming the vine, brush the loose leaves aside, and only then sit back on my heels, wiping my hands slowly against the cloth at my waist before looking up.
“Careful,” Skot says quietly as he steps into the garden’s edge, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his eyes—dark, sharp, far too aware—scan the perimeter before settling on me.
“What,” I reply lightly, “you think I’m going to strangle a plant with intent?”
His mouth twitches faintly. “You’re drawing attention.”
“Existing is drawing attention,” I say, pushing myself to stand, my knees weaker than they should be, as though my body has not yet decided it forgives me for surviving. “Breathing is apparently controversial now.”
Skot steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re under observation.”
“I gathered,” I answer, flicking my gaze briefly toward the guards before looking away again. “Subtle.”
“They’re not here to intimidate you.”
I raise a brow. “Then what, exactly, is the aesthetic? Because I’m getting very strong ‘we’re pretending this is normal while it absolutely is not’ energy.”
His expression hardens slightly. “They’re here because you survived something you were not meant to survive.”
The words land colder than the air, and I swallow against the sudden metallic taste in my mouth. “You’re very comforting today.”
“I’m serious,” he says, and there is an edge to it now. “Lyria, you have drawn his attention.”
I still—not outwardly, not enough for the guards to notice, but inside something locks into place.
“Verr,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
“Yes.”
The name settles into the space between us like weight rather than sound, and I turn away from him, moving to the next section of the garden because movement is safer than stillness when my thoughts are threatening to fracture.
The soil here is cooler, shaded by a broad-leafed canopy, and when I press my fingers into it, it clings to my skin as though it doesn’t want to let go.
“Permanent?” I ask quietly.
Skot does not hesitate. “Yes.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, the scent of damp earth filling my lungs as the word settles in my chest like something solid and immovable.
“Great,” I mutter. “Love that for me.”
“You need to be careful,” he continues. “Everything you do now will be watched, interpreted, tested.”
I let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh if there were anything remotely funny about it. “So nothing has changed, except now it’s official.”
He crouches beside me, lowering himself to my level so his voice does not carry. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain,” I say, sharper than I intend.
His gaze holds mine. “Before, you were invisible. Now you are… interesting.”
I grimace. “I hate that word.”
“You should.”
I sit back on my heels, brushing dirt from my fingers in slow, deliberate motions, because if I stop moving entirely, I am fairly certain I will start shaking.
Run.
The thought is not his. Not anyone’s. It is instinct, raw and immediate.
I could.
The possibility flashes through me, sharp and dangerous, because I know the outer routes, the corridors that go unwatched at shift change, the patterns that could be slipped through if I moved carefully enough.
I could leave. I could disappear. I could vanish into the kind of anonymity that swallows people whole.
And then my mother’s hands come to mind, worn but always gentle, my brother’s laugh too loud for the space he occupies, the fragile network of people who depend on the credits I bring in, the stability I maintain, the fact that I stay.
I close my eyes briefly.
Running would save me.
Running would destroy them.
“Don’t,” Skot says softly.
My eyes snap open. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t think about it like that,” he says, watching me too closely.
“Like what.”
“Like you can leave and it will end.”
A bitter sound escapes me before I can stop it. “You’re assuming I was considering it.”
“You were.”
I glare at him. “You’re insufferable.”
“And correct.”
I look away, my jaw tightening as the garden stretches out around us in careful symmetry, rows of cultivated life contained within stone boundaries where nothing grows wild and nothing escapes.
“I can’t leave,” I say finally.
“I know.”
“And even if I did,” I add, quieter now, “it wouldn’t matter.”
“No,” he agrees. “It would not.”
The honesty does nothing to comfort me.
A subtle shift in the air draws my attention, something almost imperceptible—the way the space tightens, the way awareness sharpens—and the guards at the far edge of the walkway straighten just slightly. Skot goes still beside me.
I don’t need to turn to know.
But I do anyway.
Verr stands at the edge of the garden path beneath the archway, half-shadowed, watching.
He does not announce himself. He does not need to. His presence settles over the space with a quiet certainty that assumes attention rather than demands it, and my pulse spikes even as I force my breathing to remain even, the scent of wet leaves and soil suddenly sharper, more intrusive.
“Stay calm,” Skot murmurs.
“I am calm,” I reply, because the lie is easier than explaining the precise shape of what I am feeling.
Verr steps forward, his boots striking the stone with unhurried precision, each movement deliberate, as though time itself adjusts to his pace rather than the other way around.
He stops a few feet away, and up close he is worse—not physically imposing in the way soldiers are, not overtly threatening, but there is something in the way he looks at you that suggests he has already taken you apart and is merely waiting to see if you will notice.
“Lyria,” he says.
My name sounds different in his voice.
I incline my head just enough to be respectful without crossing into submission. “Sir.”
His gaze flicks briefly to Skot. “Leave us.”
Skot hesitates—just enough to matter.
“Now,” Verr adds, and nothing about his tone changes except something invisible tightening beneath it.
“Yes, sir,” Skot says, straightening before stepping away, his glance toward me brief but loaded—warning, apology, something unspoken—and then he is gone, leaving me alone in the way that matters.
Verr studies me, not just my face but everything—the dirt on my hands, the set of my shoulders, the way I hold my breath.
“You returned to work,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Why.”
The question lands sharper than it should.
“Because it’s my work.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
His head tilts slightly, as though adjusting his perspective. “You were exposed to something… anomalous.”
“Yes.”
“You survived.”
“Yes.”
“You understand that was not expected.”
“I gathered.”
A pause stretches between us, thin but deliberate.
“Most would be… unsettled,” he says.
“I am unsettled.”
“Yet you continue your routine.”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
The repetition is intentional. Testing.
I inhale slowly, grounding myself in the scent of damp earth. “Because stopping would draw more attention than continuing.”
His eyes sharpen slightly. “Practical.”
“I try to be.”
Another pause follows, then—
“You did not panic during the incident,” he says.
“No.”
“You did not attempt to flee.”
“No.”
“You did not seek protection.”
“No.”
Each answer feels like stepping across something fragile.
“And yet you survived,” he says softly.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Do you believe that was chance?”
I consider carefully. “Yes.”
The answer is not entirely true.
His mouth curves faintly. “You are either very honest or very cautious.”
“Both can be true.”
That catches his attention.
“You do not grovel,” he observes.
I tilt my head slightly. “Should I.”
The question lingers between us.
“Most would.”
“I’m not most.”
Silence ripples outward, subtle but real.
He steps closer—not aggressively, not overtly threatening, but enough to shift the space between us.
“You are correct,” he says quietly. “You are not.”
My pulse hammers, but I hold steady.
“Tell me,” he continues, “what do you think happened?”
Careful.
“I think I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And survived.”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“Unlikely things happen.”
His gaze does not leave mine. “You are not afraid.”
“I am.”
“Show me.”
My throat tightens, and I let a breath out slowly, allowing a controlled amount of tension to show—not too much, not too little, just enough.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I say quietly.
“Honesty.”
“Then I am afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
A long pause stretches between us.
“Good,” Verr says softly.
The word settles colder than it should.
He straightens slightly, stepping back just enough to restore space. “You will continue your work.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will report any irregularities.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you will not attempt to leave.”
My chest tightens.
“I will not.”
The answer sits somewhere between truth and lie, and I am no longer certain which it is.
He studies me one last time, then turns, his presence receding as he walks back toward the archway, and the moment he passes beyond it, the air shifts again, the pressure easing, sound returning, the garden exhaling.
I remain exactly where I am until he is gone, then let out a hard breath, my hands shaking as I press them into the soil, grounding myself in something real—wet earth, living roots, something that grows.
“Yeah,” I whisper under my breath, my voice unsteady despite my best efforts. “This is going to be fine.”
It isn’t.
But I am still here.
And that, apparently, is enough to make me interesting.
Which means I have to be careful.
Very, very careful.