“To think, I once shed a tear for you when Samael killed you,” Lyra says with a laugh, but the sound is chilling, foreign to the warm laughter I know. I glance at Nyx, who hasn’t moved and is leaning casually against the wall, seemingly unbothered by the transformation unfolding in Lyra, by the dark magic coursing through her.
“Do you remember the last time we were in this room practicing magic and you slapped me for asking too many questions?”
Lyra steps closer, her presence dominating the room. When Athalda remains silent, Lyra strikes her across the face. The impact forces the old witch to wince, especially on the side marred by scars, closing her bad eye momentarily.
“What a fool I was, thinking you actually wanted to help me, to make me stronger for my sake and that of my people. But you’ve always been his lackey, haven’t you? Always dancing to my father’s tune like a loyal puppet,” Lyra accuses, her voice dripping with contempt as she starts pacing before Athalda, trapped and helpless.
“He saw great potential in you, a chance for you to rise to divinity alongside him. Your actions not only destroyed his ambitions but also obliterated any hope of transcending the mortal coil,” Athalda retorts through gritted teeth, defiant even in a compromised position.
“I did more than shatter his ambitions. I tore out his heart,” Lyra counters with a cold, mocking laugh, the sound echoing off the walls as she moves. “And as for becoming a god, I wield more power now than I could have ever imagined. In your eyes, I might as well be a deity. I don’t need whatever lies beyond those gates.”
Nyx and I share a look of unease, a silent acknowledgement of the dangerous path she treads.
“Mind your words, child. Mock the gods, and you may find yourself facing oblivion, as your father did,” Athalda snaps back in a raspy whisper as the shadows constricting her tighten cruelly, eliciting a choked gasp before Lyra eases her grip.
“I have questions for you, and since my father is gone and you’ve got no one left to hide behind, I suggest sticking to the truth. If I sense even a hint of deceit, it’ll be the last lie you ever tell. Do you understand?” Lyra leans in close to Athalda’s face, the threat unmistakable.
After a moment’s pause, Athalda clears her throat. “I understand.” Her compliance surprises me slightly. I half-expected a snide comeback, but given her precarious situation, her usual combativeness seems to have deserted her.
“I know I saw Luke in the burning forest. He was here in Zomea. I’ve seen him multiple times through my midnight mind. My mother too—I’ve heard her voice. Where are they now? Why is it that we hardly ever see another soul in Zomea?” Lyra’s inquiry is earnest, her eyes searching Athalda’s for any flicker of dishonesty.
I find myself leaning in, equally eager for the truth. The scarcity of faces in Zomea has been a puzzle to me as well. Aside from Anika, encounters with others have been rare, mostly during my ventures far from the palace in search of Aidan.
“Zomea is vast, and your midnight mind isn’t always reliable—” Athalda begins, only to stop abruptly when Lyra’s dark tendrils tighten around her throat.
“I’m tired of the lies, the same ones my father peddled. I refuse to believe that not a single soul I’ve known has made it into Zomea. You’re as delusional as he was if you expectme to accept that,” Lyra counters, her resolve steeling in the face of Athalda’s evasions.
Her fierceness, though slightly terrifying, fills me with pride. She’s standing her ground, challenging the untruths that’ve been fed to her.
“Everyone from your past who entered Zomea was hunted down and eliminated. Is that clear enough for you? Your father wouldn’t risk leaving anyone alive, not with the threat they could pose to his plans. Any face you recognized with your midnight mind was before they met their final end, either by Euric’s hand or mine,” Athalda reveals, her voice cold and matter-of-fact.
For a moment, I brace for Lyra’s wrath to erupt, for the shadows to do their worst. But instead she takes a deep, measured breath, and when I dare to look into her eyes, I find them not fully consumed by the darkness—still flecked with warmth. It’s a reassurance that she remains in control of herself, despite the swirling tempest of power at her beck and call.
“What about Nyx’s parents?” Lyra probes.
My heart clenches, hoping nothing slips that could unveil our shared lineage. It’s a revelation I’m not ready for Lyra to hear, not until I can explain it myself in my own way.
“That, I truly do not know. Zomea’s expanse dwarfs all the realms of Eguina combined. And the scarcity of souls near this palace? Partly because it’s nestled within an active volcano, and partly because Euric’s reputation precedes him even here. He was both respected and feared. His desire for solitude was well known. Those who ignored it quickly regretted their curiosity,” Athalda explains, and something in her tone convinces me she’s speaking the truth this time.
The mention of my biological father, Callum, stirs a whirlwind of thoughts. If he’s somewhere in Zomea, he might holdthe keys to the many unanswered questions that haunt us—the nature of the prophecy, the identity of the light, and how it all intertwines with our fates.
“What lives behind the gates?” Lyra halts her pacing to fix Athalda with a questioning look.
“What makes you think anything lives there?” Athalda counters tersely.
“Don’t deflect my question with another question,” Lyra insists, drawing in a deep breath. I sense her struggle for composure, yet I stay silent, a mere observer to this exchange.
“Your father was of the belief that it’s the dwelling place of the gods,” Athalda finally concedes, prompting a flicker of disappointment across Lyra’s features.
“Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar? A random gate in the eeriest part of Zomea, unopened yet purportedly home to all the gods?” Lyra muses, almost to herself. Her skepticism mirrors my own thoughts. The gates do possess an unsettling aura, one I’m not eager to delve into further.
“Where are all the Gholioths? Why haven’t I seen one? Do they still bear resemblance to their Fae origins? This all spiraled from your lie about Gholioth blood,” Lyra presses on, her frustration evident, though it’s unclear if she’s seeking answers from Athalda or simply voicing her thoughts aloud.
“Their appearance varies with the observer. They might reveal themselves to you, should they find you worthy,” Athalda replies, her answer eliciting an involuntary eye roll from me.
“I’m tired of your riddles. Why can’t you provide a straightforward answer?” Lyra howls, her anger surfacing as shadows writhe and stretch, causing Athalda to cry out in pain.
Glancing at Nyx, I catch him smirking, and there’s a troubling glint of amusement in Lyra’s eyes. This cruelty, this delight in another’s torment, is uncharacteristic of the Lyra I know.The influence they exert on each other is toxic. They’re drawing out the worst in one another.
