The moment Lyra stepped into Silas Vane's wing, something inside her recoiled.
Not in fear.
In confusion.
Warmth. There was warmth here.
The halls were bathed in golden firelight, the kind that spilled across polished floors like liquid sun. Ivy curled around the walls, fragrant herbs hung drying from exposed beams, and woven tapestries muted the sound of her steps. Even the air felt different—fresh, like something still alive.
It didn't feel like a prison.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
She followed the soft sound of string music and water, her bare feet brushing over smooth stone until she reached an open archway.
Inside, the world softened further.
A domed chamber flooded with light. Glass-paned ceilings showed the pale dusk sky above. Tables of polished wood held bowls of herbs, polished stones, and carved crystal tools she didn't recognize. A slow stream of water trickled along one wall, feeding into a shallow indoor pool framed with moss and tiny white flowers.
It smelled like mint and lavender. Like memory.
And in the middle of it stood Silas.
He turned at the sound of her steps, a faint smile breaking across his face.
He was… beautiful. In a softer way than the others. Less sharp edges. More light.
No cloak. No weapons. Just rolled sleeves and a faint flush to his cheeks, like he'd been working too long near the fire.
His eyes locked with hers.
And for a moment, she froze.
There was no hunger in his gaze. No calculation.
Just concern.
"Lyra," he said gently. "You made it."
She hesitated, lingering at the threshold like prey unsure if it was stepping into a trap.
"No guards?" she asked.
"No need," he said. "I don't want you afraid of me."
She nearly laughed.
Too late for that.
Still, she stepped forward.
The scent of herbs grew stronger. Calming. Annoyingly so.
He gestured toward a low table near the hearth, where two cups steamed gently beside a fresh set of folded clothes.
"Tea?" he offered. "And… something more comfortable."
Her brows arched. "You're not going to collar me instead?"
His expression flickered, just for a second.
"No collars. No threats. Just this."
She sat down across from him slowly. The cushions were soft. She hated how good they felt.
Silas poured tea with practiced grace, then handed her the cup without a word.
It was warm against her palms. Fragrant. Gentle.
She didn't drink.
Instead, she stared into the liquid like it might reveal what game he was playing.
"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked.
He didn't hesitate. "Because everyone else is trying to make you into something you're not."
She scoffed. "And you think you know what I am?"
"I think I want to."
That silence again.
Not heavy. Not sharp. Just there.
Present.
It unnerved her more than shouting would have.
After a long pause, Silas reached for a small jar beside him—blue-tinted glass, filled with salve that shimmered faintly silver under the candlelight.
"For the bruises," he said. "From Ronan."
She stiffened.
"I don't need—"
"It's not a command," he said, holding her gaze. "Just an offer."
Lyra's breath caught.
No one had offered her anything since she'd been captured.
Not food. Not warmth. Not words.
Just orders.
Pain.
Silas didn't move. He simply waited.
Slowly—reluctantly—she nodded.
He stood and stepped behind her, hands gentle as he lifted the hem of her shirt.
His fingers brushed her bare back.
Cool balm met bruised flesh.
She tensed.
He paused immediately.
"Is this okay?" he asked softly.
She bit her tongue.
Why did that question hurt?
"Yes," she said.
He resumed, hands steady, moving with the care of someone who touched broken things often. She could feel the precision in him—not just a healer's skill, but a man who understood pain. Who respected it.
It was almost too much.
When he was finished, she lowered her shirt slowly and turned to face him.
"You don't have to act like I'm human," she said. "I know what the rest of you think."
"I don't think you're human," he said. "I think you're more."
She blinked.
"I voted against the bond," he added. "They overruled me. Kael said your presence had tactical merit. Ronan said the bloodline had to continue. Dorian—" His voice soured. "He just wanted control."
"And Lucien?"
Silas paused. "Lucien doesn't vote."
That surprised her. "Why?"
"Because he already knows how it ends."
She looked away.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked again, quieter now.
He stepped closer, voice low. "Because I've seen what happens when people forget kindness. And because I know what it means to be used."
She swallowed hard.
The words caught somewhere in her throat and stayed there.
"I don't trust you," she said.
"You don't have to."
He picked up her tea cup and placed it gently in her hands.
"Just… rest."
The moment shattered with the slam of a door.
"Well," came the voice that always made her skin crawl. "Isn't this sweet?"
Dorian.
He strolled into the chamber like he owned it, boots clicking against stone, a knowing smile carved into his smug face.
Lyra froze.
Silas's entire body stiffened.
"I thought this was a healer's wing," Dorian mused, circling slowly. "Not a harem."
"Get out," Silas said.
"I was just checking in," Dorian said lightly. "Our dear Lyra hasn't had much family time, have you?"
"Don't," she said coldly. "Don't pretend you're my blood."
"But I am," he said, stepping closer. "Your only living relative. That must mean something."
She stood, eyes sharp.
Dorian smiled wider. "Don't forget where you come from, cousin. You can change your clothes, your attitude, even your scent. But blood…" He reached for her cheek.
Silas moved faster than she'd ever seen him move.
One moment Dorian's hand was in the air, the next he was slammed against the wall, pinned with a grip so tight his breath caught in his throat.
Silas's voice was low. Deadly.
"If you touch her again, I will break every bone in your hand. Then I'll heal it. And break it again."
Dorian struggled, sneered. "That temper's going to get you killed one day, Silas."
"Not before I kill you first."
Lyra stared.
Not because of the threat.
But because of the look on Silas's face.
Rage.
Real. Deep. Unfiltered.
Not for show.
For her.
Dorian shoved off the wall, brushing his shirt smooth as if nothing had happened.
He looked at Lyra once more, eyes glittering.
"See you soon, cousin."
The door shut behind him with a thud.
Silas stood there, breathing hard.
When he turned back to her, the fire was still in his eyes—but so was something else.
Fear.
Guilt.
Want.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
Lyra stepped back, confused by the shaking in her own hands.
She had faced death, darkness, torture.
But this?
This soft fury wrapped in kindness—it undid her.
"You didn't have to protect me," she said.
"I didn't," he replied. "I wanted to."
She looked away, voice quieter than she meant. "Why?"
Silas didn't speak.
Not with words.
Just a look.
A feeling.
And in that moment, Lyra understood the danger.
It wasn't Ronan's fists. Or Kael's riddles. Or even Lucien's endless game.
It was this.
The quiet.
The warmth.
The chance to believe someone actually cared.
"If he touches you again," Silas said, voice trembling now not from anger, but from restraint, "I'll kill him. I swear it."
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Lyra wanted to believe someone meant it.
🖤 Mini-Scene: The Tea Left Untouched
The chamber was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Silas had left, giving her space with a soft look and a promise to return if she needed him.
She didn't answer.
Now, Lyra sat alone on the floor, her tea growing cold in her hands. The warmth had faded from the cup—just as it had faded from the room.
She hadn't taken a single sip.
It would've been easy. One small act of trust. One gesture of peace.
But her fingers still curled around the porcelain like it might bite her.
Her thoughts swirled like the misted steam that no longer rose. She had almost relaxed. Almost let herself feel something.
And then Dorian reminded her what happened when she let her guard down.
She tilted her head back, eyes drifting toward the silver-veined ceiling, and whispered to no one:
"You always said trust was a weapon, Mama. But you never taught me how to use it."
The words left her in a breath.
And for a moment, she swore she smelled wildflowers.
The kind that only bloomed on her mother's grave.