Lyra had never seen anything like the academy.
Even from the servant's entrance, it felt overwhelming. The walls rose high into the night, warm light spilling from tall windows while distant voices echoed through the halls. Everything about it spoke of power—a world never meant for someone like her.
"Don't stand there."
Lyra turned.
A woman stood a few steps away in a dark uniform, her posture rigid, her expression cold enough to silence questions.
"Follow me."
Lyra nodded and moved after her.
They avoided the main halls, taking a narrower corridor where the air felt colder and quieter, far removed from the polished spaces meant for students.
"Name," the woman said without slowing.
"Lyra Valen."
A brief pause.
"Half-blood."
Lyra didn't respond.
"You'll call me Head Maid Elira. Follow orders, keep your head down, and stay out of the students' way. Understood?"
"…Yes."
They stopped at a heavy wooden door. Elira pushed it open.
Heat and noise spilled out at once.
The kitchen stretched wider than Lyra expected, filled with long tables, stacked ingredients, and servants moving quickly between them. Everything moved with purpose, leaving no space for hesitation.
Lyra stepped inside.
"This is where you work," Elira said. "Don't slow anyone down."
A few heads turned, their attention brief but sharp.
"She's new?"
"Looks like it."
"Half-blood?"
A quiet scoff followed.
Lyra lowered her gaze, her shoulders tightening as she moved further in.
"You," Elira said, pointing toward a row of empty buckets. "Water. Fill them."
Lyra grabbed one and headed outside.
The well wasn't far, but the weight dragged at her arms more than it should have. By the time she returned, her grip had already weakened.
She went back again, then again, each trip wearing her down faster than expected. Her breathing turned uneven, and she had to tighten her fingers around the handle to keep it steady.
Something wasn't right.
Her body felt heavier than it should, as if the strength had been drained out of her.
The memory surfaced again.
The blade. The blood.
Lyra forced it away and kept moving.
Stopping wasn't an option.
Back in the kitchen, no one paid her any attention. Work continued as if she didn't exist.
"Faster," someone muttered as she passed.
She didn't respond.
By the last bucket, her hands had gone numb and her steps less certain.
She moved forward—
And her foot caught.
The bucket tipped, water spilling across the floor.
Lyra stumbled, barely catching herself.
A few servants glanced over, then looked away.
"Careless."
"She won't last long."
The words were quiet, but they lingered.
Lyra straightened, her chest rising too fast. "I'll clean it."
No one answered.
She grabbed a cloth and dropped to her knees, wiping the water before it spread. Her hands moved quickly despite the faint tremor in her fingers.
Footsteps echoed near the entrance.
Different. Slower. Deliberate.
Lyra looked up.
Three students walked past, their presence drawing attention without effort.
One of them stopped.
"Is that a half-blood?"
The others followed his gaze.
Lyra lowered her head again, her grip tightening on the cloth.
"They actually let those in?" one said.
"They don't," another replied. "That's why she's here."
The meaning was clear.
Not a student.
Just a servant.
The third stepped closer, his voice carrying easily.
"Hey. Still alive?"
Lyra didn't answer. Her fingers pressed harder into the cloth.
He watched her, faintly amused. "I thought your kind didn't last long."
A quiet laugh followed.
Something tightened in her chest, slow and heavy.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Just pressure building beneath the surface.
"I'm talking to you."
Lyra forced her voice out, low but steady. "…I'm working."
He smiled slightly. "Right. Try not to get in the way."
They walked off, their voices fading.
Lyra stayed still for a moment before continuing to clean, her movements steady again.
No reaction. No argument.
Silence was safer.
Around her, the kitchen returned to its rhythm as if nothing had happened.
When she finished, Lyra pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the lingering heaviness as she reached for the next task.
Keep moving. Don't think.
Because thinking meant remembering.
From the shadowed corridor just beyond the kitchen, someone stood still, watching.
Far enough not to be noticed, close enough to see everything clearly.
His gaze lingered on the girl who didn't react, didn't argue, and didn't even look up again.
Nothing about her should have stood out.
And yet, something did.
"…Strange."
The word slipped out quietly.
He couldn't explain it—not her appearance, not her actions.
Something else.
Something off.
Inside the kitchen, Lyra lifted another bucket, her steps steady despite the weakness creeping through her body.
She didn't know she was being watched, didn't know she had already drawn attention.
All she knew was that she had to survive.
No matter how much of herself she had to bury to do it.
From the shadows, he finally turned away
but not before deciding he would watch her again.