The scent of dried herbs and morning mist drifted into the kitchen, heralding the quiet arrival of Maevra Linhollow. Her shawl fluttered faintly behind her, boots barely making a sound against the cold stone tiles.
But even silence couldn't hide her presence from the two sitting at the old wooden table.
"Maevra," Lyra greeted, eyes still a little puffy from the tears she pretended hadn't fallen earlier.
Alaric, seated with a half-empty bowl of broth in front of him, looked up as well. He didn't need to turn around to know it was her. There was something unspoken about Maevra's presence—something both soft and unyielding, like a lullaby that lingered long after its final note.
"You're up," she said, her voice low and melodic. Her gaze, deep forest green tinged with hazel, settled on Alaric with quiet concern. "Feeling steadier today? You gave us all quite the scare yesterday."
Alaric rubbed the back of his neck. The knot of unease still hadn't gone away. "Just a little off-balance. I'm alright now."
Maevra offered a small smile. "That's good to hear. Tomorrow is the Rite, after all." She walked slowly to the counter, fingers brushing a pile of folded linens. "The Duskwatch assembly begins before first bell. After that, the escort departs for Viremonth Bastion. You don't want to miss the Veilflux train."
Lyra leaned over and nudged him with her elbow. "She's right. If you faint again, I'm not carrying you through the gates."
Alaric groaned. "Perfect. You've teamed up. I don't stand a chance."
The gentle laugh that escaped Maevra was rare—and warm. She stepped forward and laid a hand on Alaric's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, yet it grounded him more than any words could. "Whatever happens tomorrow, Alaric—whether you awaken or not—remember this: Ebonreach will always be your home."
Then she turned and left, her shawl trailing behind her like fog dissolving in morning light.
Alaric watched her go, his throat tight.Home…The word felt distant, fragile.
---
The Last Morning.
The sky was a dull rose-gray when Alaric opened his eyes the next morning. He sat up slowly. The other boys in the dormitory still slept, curled beneath patched blankets, unaware of the change that loomed just beyond the horizon.
Lyra had already risen.
They didn't speak much as they packed their modest belongings—just enough for the Rite. A second shirt. An old pendant. A mended cloak. The silence between them wasn't cold; it was reverent, like a prayer unspoken.
From the window, Alaric watched as the sun's twin halos struggled to pierce the crimson-tinged sky.
What if I don't come back?The thought crept in again.
What if the Rite changed him? What if it took something he couldn't get back?
Lyra folded her coat with tight, mechanical precision, and though she tried to hide it, her hands trembled.
When they finally emerged from the dormitory, the others were waiting.
At the orphanage gates stood the rest of their family—wide-eyed children wrapped in mismatched scarves, faces a mixture of awe and sorrow.
"Sister Lyra… Brother Alaric…"A little girl with braids and a patched-up teddy bear stepped forward, voice barely above a whisper. "You're coming back, right?"
Lyra dropped to one knee and hugged her gently. "Of course we are. Don't be silly," she said, voice cracking ever so slightly. "We'll be back soon, and I expect you to beat me at tag this time."
The girl sniffled, nodded, then buried her face in Lyra's shoulder.
Alaric stood a little apart, his heart aching with a strange, quiet grief. "You all take care of each other, alright? Keep Maevra out of trouble," he added with a forced chuckle.
One of the boys saluted with serious eyes, as though sealing a sacred vow.
"Protect one another," Alaric added softly, kneeling down. "No matter what. That's how we make it through."
A long, still silence followed.
When the final bell rang from the ward's steeple, Lyra and Alaric stepped away—slowly, like shadows pulling free of their anchors.
The streets of Duskwatch Ward were still quiet at this hour, the bustle of the morning market yet to stir. Familiar stalls were shuttered. The scent of damp stone and distant coal fires hung in the air.
They walked side by side, boots echoing in tandem.
"Hey…" Lyra finally said, voice quiet. "No matter what happens tomorrow… we stick together, alright?"
Alaric looked over, surprised at how steady she sounded.
She met his gaze. "Even if we awaken as Lords. Even if we get separated… We find our way back. That's the deal."
A pause.
Then, he nodded, and reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder. "Promise."
Her smile was small, but it held fire.
---
The plaza at the center of Duskwatch was already occupied.
Several other sixteen-year-olds waited near the staging area—nervous, tense, quiet. Some clutched small keepsakes. Others stared straight ahead, like soldiers before battle.
Uniformed soldiers patrolled the perimeter, inspecting their Veilflux rifles and barking orders to one another. The presence of the military was a stark reminder—this wasn't just a ceremony. It was a reckoning.
A deep, vibrating hum echoed through the square.
Then the transport arrived.
A sleek Veil-tech vehicle rolled into view, its polished metal chassis humming with restrained energy. The air around it shimmered faintly, glowing lines of Veilflux trailing across its surface like veins pulsing beneath skin.
One by one, names were called.
As the others boarded, Lyra gave Alaric a firm nod. "Together," she whispered.
"Together," he echoed, stepping in behind her.
The interior was cold and sterile—clean metal benches, harness straps, and humming stabilizers lining the ceiling. As the final pair entered, the doors sealed shut with a hydraulic hiss.
The transport began to move.
Outside, Duskwatch Ward faded into the background, a city of rust and resilience swallowed by morning fog.
Inside, Alaric sat quietly, hands clenched on his knees.
This is it.
The Rite awaited.
Whether they returned as Lords, conscripts, or not at all—everything was about to change.
And yet, somehow…With Lyra beside him, that fragile light in the dark held strong.