Chapter 11 Lyria
LYRIA
The garden doesn’t forget.
That’s the first thing I realize the next morning, standing knee-deep in a row of root clusters that smell faintly metallic under the damp sweetness of the soil.
The air is thicker than usual, heavy with condensation that clings to my skin and settles at the base of my throat, and even the light feels different—too bright in some places, too sharp along the edges of things that should blur naturally.
Nothing is visibly wrong, nothing I could point to and say there, but the rhythm is off.
People are watching me.
Not openly. Not enough to make a scene. But I feel it in the way conversations cut short when I move too close, in the way hands hesitate before resuming work, in the way the guards don’t just patrol anymore—they track.
Their gazes skim past everyone else and land on me just a fraction longer than necessary, like they’re trying to measure something they don’t fully understand.
“Congratulations,” Skot murmurs as he steps into my peripheral space without looking directly at me. “You’ve achieved the kind of attention most people here spend their lives avoiding.”
I don’t look up from the roots I’m untangling. The fibers are tight, knotted in a way that suggests overgrowth, and when I pull them apart carefully, the plant releases a faint, sharp scent that stings my nose.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Feels like I won a prize I didn’t sign up for.”
He crouches beside me, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes mine, but not quite. Always not quite.
“You should consider adjusting your behavior,” he says quietly.
“I have,” I reply, easing a thicker root free and brushing soil away from it. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“That is not the same as safe.”
I snort softly. “Nothing here is safe. It’s just varying degrees of not dead.”
Skot exhales through his nose, and I catch the faintest hint of frustration in it.
“You provoked him,” he says.
“I asked a question.”
“You challenged him.”
“I asked why he didn’t kill someone,” I correct, finally glancing at him. “That’s not exactly revolutionary.”
“In this place,” he says, meeting my gaze briefly before looking away again, “it is.”
I sit back on my heels, wiping my hands on the cloth at my waist. The fabric is already stained from yesterday, darker where the moisture hasn’t fully dried.
“He answered,” I say.
Skot’s brow tightens slightly. “That is what concerns me.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”
A shadow passes over the light.
Not a literal one—nothing moves above us—but the sensation is immediate, like the air compresses just slightly, like something has entered the space that the environment hasn’t had time to adjust around yet.
Skot goes still.
I don’t.
Not immediately.
I finish what I’m doing, press the soil back into place, and only then push myself to stand.
“Back to work,” I say under my breath.
“Of course,” Skot replies just as quietly, already shifting away, his posture loosening into something more neutral, less… aligned with me.
I don’t turn right away.
I don’t need to.
I know he’s here.
When I do look, it’s slow, deliberate, controlled.
Verr stands at the far end of the row, not moving, not speaking, just watching.
The guards along the perimeter have adjusted again—tighter spacing, sharper lines—and the workers nearest him have found an urgent need to focus on tasks that require their full attention and absolutely no awareness of anything else.
He doesn’t call my name this time.
He just walks.
And I feel it.
Every step, even when I don’t hear it, registers in the way the air shifts, the way the space between people adjusts to make room for him without anyone consciously choosing to move.
He stops in front of me.
Close.
Not as close as yesterday.
Close enough.
“Report,” he says.
I blink.
“Excuse me?”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “Your section.”
Right.
Inspection.
Of course.
I inhale slowly, grounding myself in the scent of the garden, the feel of soil still clinging faintly to my fingers.
“Moisture levels are running high,” I say, gesturing toward the bed in front of me. “The irrigation cycle is overcompensating for last week’s deficit. If it continues, we’re going to start seeing root rot in the lower layers.”
He doesn’t look at the plants.
He looks at me.
“And you have corrected this.”
“No,” I say.
A beat.
“No,” I repeat. “Because I don’t have access to the irrigation controls. I can mitigate it, but I can’t fix it.”
Silence stretches between us.
Behind him, I can see Skot moving along the adjacent row, his pace steady, his posture unremarkable, but his proximity is not accidental.
Verr’s head tilts slightly.
“Mitigate,” he says.
“I’ve been spacing the roots manually,” I reply, crouching again to demonstrate, my fingers moving through the soil with practiced precision. “Increasing airflow where I can, thinning the denser clusters so they don’t choke each other out. It buys time.”
“For how long.”
“A few days,” I say. “Maybe a week if we’re lucky.”
“And after that.”
“They start dying.”
The words land plainly.
No dramatics.
No hesitation.
I look up at him.
“You asked for a report.”
His gaze holds mine for a moment longer, then finally—finally—he looks down at the plants.
I watch the shift.
It’s subtle.
But it’s there.
He kneels.
The movement is controlled, deliberate, and it sends a ripple through the nearby workers that they try very hard not to show. Verr does not kneel. Not here. Not like this.
He reaches out, his hand hovering just above the leaves before making contact, brushing them lightly. The plant trembles under the touch, leaves shifting, releasing that same sharp-green scent I noticed earlier.
“Over-saturation,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“And this has gone unreported.”
“Not by me,” I say.
His eyes flick back to mine.
“Who, then.”
I shrug slightly. “Whoever has access to the systems. Or whoever’s supposed to be monitoring them.”
A pause.
“You are assigning fault,” he says.
“I’m identifying a problem,” I reply. “What you do with that is up to you.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression.
Not irritation.
Not approval.
Interest.
He stands.
The movement is fluid, controlled, and when he looks at me again, there’s a different weight to his gaze.
“You speak as though you understand the system,” he says.
“I understand what I’m standing in,” I reply. “That’s usually enough.”
“And you believe that qualifies you to evaluate its efficiency.”
“I think dead plants are a pretty good indicator something’s not working,” I say.
A faint sound escapes him.
Not quite a laugh.
But close enough to register.
“That is a simplistic assessment.”
“It’s a practical one.”
The corner of his mouth shifts again, just slightly.
Behind him, Skot steps closer, his voice cutting in with careful timing.
“Section three has reported similar inconsistencies,” he says, addressing Verr, not me. “We attributed it to delayed recalibration after the last cycle.”
Verr doesn’t look at him.
“Attributed,” he repeats.
“Yes, sir.”
“And not corrected.”
“We prioritized structural integrity in the upper tiers,” Skot replies. “Resource allocation required—”
“—a choice,” Verr finishes.
“Yes, sir.”
Silence settles again, thicker this time.
I watch them both.
The dynamic between them is… interesting.
Skot isn’t defying him.
He’s navigating him.
Carefully.
Intentionally.
“Reallocate,” Verr says finally.
“Yes, sir.”
“And correct the cycle.”
“It will be done.”
Skot moves immediately, stepping away, already issuing quiet instructions to a nearby technician, his tone low and controlled.
I look back at Verr.
“You could’ve just asked,” I say.
His gaze sharpens.
“Asked.”
“Instead of testing me,” I clarify.
A pause.
“You assume this was a test.”
“I assume you don’t do anything without a reason.”
“And you believe you have identified it.”
“I think you wanted to see if I’d notice,” I say. “Or if I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“And you did neither.”
“No,” I agree. “I didn’t.”
He studies me again, that same precise, measuring look, like he’s recalibrating something he hasn’t fully defined yet.
“You continue to operate outside expected parameters,” he says.
“I continue to do my job,” I reply.
“You exceed it.”
“Someone has to,” I mutter.
That—
That gets a reaction.
Not outward.
But I see it.
A shift.
Small.
But real.
“You believe the system requires improvement,” he says.
“I believe it’s wasting resources,” I reply. “And time. And people.”
“People are resources.”
“Not if you want them to keep working,” I shoot back.
The words are out before I can stop them.
The air tightens.
Around us, movement slows, the entire garden holding its breath in that subtle, collective way that says something has just crossed a line.
I don’t take it back.
I don’t soften it.
I just—
Wait.
Verr’s gaze locks onto mine.
Harder now.
Sharper.
“Careful,” he says.
“I am,” I reply.
A long pause.
Then—
“Continue your work,” he says.
It’s not dismissal.
Not entirely.
But it’s close enough.
“Yes, sir.”
I kneel again, hands returning to the soil, fingers pressing into the damp earth as if nothing just happened.
But I feel it.
The shift.
The difference.
He doesn’t move immediately.
He lingers.
Watching.
Not like before.
Not like a threat.
Like he’s… considering something.
And for the first time—
I get the sense that I’m not just something he’s trying to understand.
I’m something he might actually use.
Which, in this place, might be worse--or better.