The weight of silence settled heavily in both tents, though the question rang loud in their minds. In the tent of House Avarnel, Magnus Raithe sat across from Caelum, his piercing gaze unwavering as he leaned forward slightly, fingers laced together in contemplation.
"But why do you care about a child who appeared out of nowhere, when there are more pressing matters demanding your attention in the capital?" Magnus's words were measured, deliberate.
Caelum remained still, his expression unreadable. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he stared down at the maps and documents laid out before him. He should have dismissed the question easily. It was logical. Rational. There were indeed far greater concerns plaguing the capital—diplomatic unrest, the growing tension between noble factions, whispers of rebellion. Yet, instead of dismissing the notion, he found himself gripping the edges of the table slightly tighter.
"You think I'm doing this out of sentimentality?" he finally responded, his voice cool, controlled.
Magnus let out a sigh, rubbing his temple. "No. But you're not one to waste time on lost causes either. This girl—who she is, how she survived—it's an anomaly. You, of all people, should recognize when something is a distraction."
A distraction.
Caelum wanted to agree. He wanted to push this entire matter aside and move forward, to refocus on the political landscape that truly mattered. But his thoughts kept circling back to Lyra's wide, unburdened smile, her way of threading effortlessly between the lines that divided their world. And the carvings beneath the orphanage—that was no mere coincidence.
"I don't entertain distractions," Caelum said at last, his voice sharper than before. "Which is why I intend to uncover the truth. If this child is nothing but a stray, then fine. But if her presence here is tied to something bigger, we cannot ignore it."
Magnus observed him for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "So it isn't about sentimentality. It's about control."
Caelum did not answer.
Meanwhile, within the tent of House Crimsonvale, Seraphina stood near the entrance, arms crossed as she looked outside at the flower fields. The sun had begun to rise higher, bathing the landscape in golden light. Inside, Ilyra Vesryn, the Chief Archivist, sat on a cushioned seat, watching Seraphina carefully.
"You know the council will have much to say about this," Ilyra said, adjusting her glasses. "And yet, here you are, lingering over a mystery when your presence is needed elsewhere."
Seraphina clenched her jaw but said nothing.
"Why do you care about a child who appeared out of nowhere, when there are matters of true consequence awaiting you in the capital?" Ilyra pressed further.
Seraphina turned to face her, expression unreadable, though her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeves.
"Do you think I'm incapable of prioritizing?" she asked, her voice low.
Ilyra tilted her head slightly, a knowing look in her gaze. "I think you're caught off guard. And I think this child unsettles you more than you realize."
Seraphina scoffed, shaking her head. "Unsettles me?"
"Yes," Ilyra replied smoothly. "You, the Crimson Wraith, who has never hesitated to draw a line between friend and foe—and yet you hesitate now."
Seraphina turned away again, her fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger out of habit. It should have been easy to ignore a child. She had ignored many before.
But when Lyra had smiled at her, when the girl had clung to her with such unshaken trust—it had done something. Something she couldn't yet name.
"She said the flowers took care of her," Seraphina murmured.
Ilyra raised an eyebrow. "A poetic notion, nothing more."
Seraphina shook her head. "No. There is something here. Something we are not seeing. I do not entertain foolishness, Ilyra."
Ilyra studied her for a moment before nodding. "Then let us find out what it is."
Seraphina did not respond, but deep within her, something stirred—a feeling dangerously close to determination.