The house was quiet.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that lingered like ash after fire—thick in the walls, heavy in the air.
James hadn't left the bed since the incident. His leg was splinted and elevated, wrapped in tight cloth and dried herbs that smelled like mint… and sorrow. Clearly, the best healer in the region had come—yet the bruising still painted his skin in shades of violence.
Lyra rarely left his side.
Five days.
She barely spoke.
Barely moved—like a delicate vase posed as a masterpiece. Like a living Mona Lisa, inviting those around her to guess the mystery hidden behind that stillness.
She sat curled in a blanket on a stool beside her father's bed. Not in her usual tangle of chaos—but perfectly still. Her tablecloth cape was folded in the corner. Her hair stayed brushed. Her voice, when she used it, stayed soft. Too soft.
At night, when the house hushed and only James's breaths filled the dark, her shoulders would tremble under the blanket. Not loud sobs. Just quiet, shaken breaths pressed into her knees—tears soaking the fabric without a sound.
In the mornings, when James stirred, her smile would bloom slowly—like it had to push through storm clouds to reach the surface.
She stirred the pot with both hands wrapped around the spoon, standing on a stool that wobbled every time she shifted. Her sleeves kept slipping, and the ladle was too big—but she didn't complain. She just kept going, careful like the soup might cry if she messed it up.
She even helped Grandpa clean his old walking stick one afternoon.
No one asked her to.
She just took the cloth, knelt beside his chair, and wiped the worn wood with small, trembling hands.
Not with her usual chaos. No squirrel sounds. No tiny war chants.
Just silence.
And care.
She scrubbed the soot off the fireplace bricks. She folded Dad's spare shirts. She even swept the hallway twice, like dust itself might hurt someone if she let it stay.
Like if she couldn't protect them with strength…
She'd protect them with everything else.
Grandpa said nothing.
Didn't light his pipe.
Just stared down at her, watching his granddaughter work like a soldier who'd lost a battle but hadn't left the field.
When she finished, he patted her head—once.
Didn't say thank you.
Didn't need to.
Eyes soft with something caught between memory and ache.
Me?
I was left abandoned in the corner—no squirrels, no yeeting, no chaos. Just me, a wall, and the stale company of indoor air. I wanted to complain… but decided not to.
I wasn't the one who was truly hurting.
And she never once threw a shiny rock.
Even the squirrels noticed her absence. They'd prayed for peace—but this? This wasn't it. This was too quiet. Too still.
The village noticed too.
The menace of Swift Farm had gone silent.
Children tiptoed around her. Merchants handed the family cabbages, bread, even meat—like peace offerings at a shrine.
Even the chickens kept a respectful distance.
Levin came by every day—sometimes bringing books, sometimes fresh bruises from trying to self-learn magic.
She never asked him to stay.
She never asked him to leave either.
She just watched.
Listened.
Sat by James' side like a tiny soldier guarding a throne that no longer shone.
Until, on the fifth night, she spoke.
"Mom?" she whispered, as her mother tucked her in beside the bed.
"Yes, baby?"
Her voice was warm—but tired.
Lyra's eyes didn't leave her father.
"…How do you become strong?"
Her mother blinked.
Looked at her daughter.
Then at her husband, still resting, his chest rising slowly beneath the thick quilt.
She hesitated—searching for the right answer.
The real one?
Or the gentle one meant for a five-year-old?
Finally, she sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a hand through Lyra's hair.
"You become strong," she said softly, "by protecting the ones you love."
Lyra's fingers clenched the blanket.
"But… then why am I not strong?" she asked, voice cracking. "I wanted to protect Dad… but he got hurt. B-because of me…"
Her lips trembled. Her eyes welled. She bit them back—tried to.
And then James spoke.
"Because," he rasped, voice hoarse but full of warmth, "you are strong."
Lyra looked up, startled.
James smiled. Tired.
But real.
"You being safe, sound, and healthy…" he said slowly, "That's the strongest shield you could ever give me, baby girl."
She didn't say anything at first. Just blinked.
And maybe—maybe she didn't fully understand the words.
But her heart heard them.
Something small shifted in her gaze.
Not just sorrow now—
but something steadier.
A spark.
A beginning.
Her little fingers curled tighter into his shirt, like anchoring herself to a promise not yet spoken aloud.
She threw herself into his chest and hugged him, clutching tight, like her tiny arms could hold the whole world together.
She sobbed into his shirt.
But her breaths slowed.
Tears softened.
And somewhere between heartbreak and hope—
a will began to form.
A quiet vow, tucked deep in her chest.
And slowly—finally—
she fell asleep in his arms.
The next morning, after breakfast and a soft conversation with James, Lyra came to find me.
Oh? Finally? I still exist? I thought, watching from the dusty shelf. Finally someone remembers the dice that saved the day.
But then I saw her eyes.
And the way she picked me up—so gently, so reverently—it sent a cold shiver down my imaginary spine.
This wasn't the Lyra I knew.
She didn't spin me. Didn't throw me. Didn't even talk to me. She just… pocketed me. And stepped outside.
For the first time in five days, Lyra left the house.
She walked aimlessly at first, eyes tracing the rooftops, the wagons, the familiar trees that lined the edge of the village road. Everything looked... bigger now. Louder. Like the world had been waiting for her to catch up and now it was rushing ahead without her.
A cart rattled past, its wheels groaning louder than they used to. Chickens scattered. A pair of pigeons fluttered across the roof of the tailor's shop, cooing like gossiping aunties. Somewhere in the distance, a hammer struck iron with a sharp clang, rhythmic and proud.
Some villagers paused when they saw her.
Some offered polite, uncertain smiles.
Others whispered.
She didn't react.
Just walked.
Past the well.
Past old Mr. Barlen's cabbage stand, where the cabbages absolutely looked guilty about something.
Past the toy shop with the wooden wind chimes that usually made her giggle.
Not today.
She passed a group near the bakery—three women and a man standing outside, flour on their aprons and sugar dust on their cheeks.
"Did you hear?" one woman whispered. "That Lord Thumbs-Up—kicked out by his own wife. Divorced. Publicly. In the plaza. Right after market day."
"Who's Lord Thumbs-Up?" another asked, confused.
"Oh, come on. That noble with the pink silk undies and the justice speech—"
"The kids call him Pink in Justice now," the baker added, snorting.
Lyra blinked. Didn't stop. But I swear I felt her heartbeat skip inside her chest pocket.
"Hey! That's Lyra!" one of the women hissed.
Too late.
The baker, possibly overwhelmed by guilt or inspired by divine awkwardness, scrambled and handed her a warm roll of honey bread.
"Here, sweetie. On the house. Sorry about the… uh… air quality."
Lyra bowed slightly, whispering a soft "thank you," before turning down the next lane.
And she kept walking.
The cobblestones felt bumpier than usual. The breeze ruffled her hair like it missed her. She paused to watch a bluebird hop along a fence post, pecking at crumbs before taking flight.
Down by the stream, she slowed, watching the water rush over the rocks.
A moment.
A breath.
Then her feet moved again, like they had somewhere to be before her mind agreed.
Eventually, the walk ended not in some grand destination—but in front of Levin's house.
She stopped.
Stared.
Then knocked.
I braced myself.
Romance alert.
Don't you dare start confessing, girl. Not while I'm in your pocket.
But no.
She wasn't here for Levin.
She was here for someone else.
After the knock the door creaked open.
"G-Good morning, Lyra—whoa, uh, hey," Levin stammered, halfway between a salute and a nervous wave. He looked like a puppy trying to impress a thunderstorm.
Lyra didn't blink.
"Call your father."
A pause.
A long one.
Levin POV: She's here to propose. Oh gods. It's happening.
Dice POV: Wait—WAIT. She's skipping childhood romance and going straight for the in-law?!! I know she's WILD but not this illegally….
"Daaaad—L-Lyra's looking for you!" Levin croaked, panic scrawled across every inch of his face
Footsteps thudded behind him.
Levin's dad stepped into view—broad-shouldered, in an old flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Big hands, flour-stained forearm, and a kind of quiet weight to him—like a man who used to hold lightning and now holds hammers.
Tired eyes, kind frown. The kind of man who'd fix your roof and quietly enchant it to repel rain.
"Hey there, kiddo," he said, voice rough but warm. "Everything alright?"
Lyra didn't answer.
She took a breath.
She stepped forward.
Lifted her hand.
High.
A little shaky.
But her eyes didn't waver.
And with the conviction of someone declaring the start of a revolution—
She planted the slightly smushed honey roll into his hands like it sealed a royal contract.
"This is your payment."
Did… Did she just propose marriage with pastry?
I—No. Nope. I'm out.
Abort mission. Ctrl-alt-delete. Boot me to DOS. No GUI.