Chapter 5 Ghosts of Home

Lyra Thorn leaned against the cold stone wall of the palace courtyard, her eyes tracing the sun rising over the city rooftops. She missed home, the Lower Quarters, the chaos, the smells of smoke and bread, the crowded, noisy streets where every corner held a story, a friend, or a fight waiting for her.

Her heart tightened at the memory of Mira, Jax, and the others. They weren't just a gang or accomplices, they were her family. Mira, with her sharp wit and sharper tongue, always ready to call Lyra out on her reckless antics; Jax, clever and steady, who never let her slip entirely out of his sight; and even the younger ones, scrawny but quick, who followed her as if she were the sun itself. They had shaped her into who she was-the rogue, the survivor, the girl who could steal a relic from beneath the king's nose and live to tell the story.

Lyra's fingers brushed the pocket where the medallion rested. The relic hummed faintly, almost alive. She couldn't deny it any longer: it wasn't just a shiny bauble or a piece of forgotten history. It carried weight, power, and danger, all rolled into one.

Centuries ago, the sun medallion had belonged to the Ardent Kings of Solarys. Legend whispered that it held the ability to awaken dormant magic in anyone it chose, but it could only be wielded by one with the fire of rebellion and the sharpness of cunning. Those who tried to force it... often died, their power consumed by the relic itself.

Lyra had stolen it for a reason-but not out of pure greed. She had been hungry for freedom, for leverage, for a thrill that no petty theft could ever satisfy. And that day at the market had given her exactly that.

She had been weaving through the crowded stalls, eyes on fine silk she could barely afford, plotting how to cheat the merchant without getting caught. Her fingers had grazed the edge of a golden scarf, already imagining the delighted gasp Mira would make if she ever got it back to the hideout.

That's when she had noticed them-three men in long, dark coats, moving with too much coordination to be ordinary buyers. Their eyes scanned every alley, every stall, every passerby, like predators sniffing for a trail. Something about the way they moved. Their silence, the slight gleam of metal beneath their coats, made Lyra's instincts flare.

Curiosity and danger danced in tandem as she slipped behind them, careful to remain unnoticed. They turned down a narrow street, cobblestones uneven beneath her boots, and stopped before a building she hadn't seen before. The building itself seemed older than the rest of the marketplace. Its stone cracked, windows narrow and tall, shutters carved with twisting runes that glimmered faintly in the morning light. A smell of burning incense and polished wood seeped from the door, mingling with the faint tang of metal.

Peering through a crack in the shutters, Lyra's eyes widened. Inside, crates marked with the emblem of the royal treasury sat alongside scrolls and artifacts, and at the center, resting on a pedestal cushioned with velvet, was the medallion. Its golden surface gleamed with an inner light, humming faintly as if calling to her.

The men were trading, their voices low and precise. She didn't understand, every word they spoke was in the old tongue. But she understood the stakes: the relic was being moved, bartered like a piece of currency, treated as if it were a commodity.

Lyra's pulse quickened. She didn't plan this-didn't know she would even have the chance-but her hands itched, her mind raced, and the thrill of the chase that would follow surged in her veins. She waited until the men stepped away, then scaled the side of the building, careful not to make a sound. Her boots clung to the stone, muscles tense, senses sharpened.

Inside, she moved like a shadow. Every step precise, every breath controlled. A lantern flickered across her path, casting moving golden patterns across the walls. Lyra ducked, rolled, and leapt, landing silently on the pedestal. Her fingers closed around the relic, and the moment she touched it, the hum inside her hand intensified, warmth spreading up her arm as if the medallion recognized her as its rightful owner.

The trade men returned too soon. Lyra spun, ducked, and vaulted toward the window she had entered through, the relic clutched tight. A shout went up. Torches lit the walls as the chase began. She ran, weaving through alleys, across rooftops, and through the chaos of the city she knew like the back of her hand.

Every turn, every leap, every heartbeat sounded too loud. Guards shouting, the flicker of torches, and then... the sudden encounter with Prince Aerion. He had stopped her in that moment, saving her in a way no one had ever done.

And then came Cassian Ale.

Now, in the palace, the relic safe, or at least hidden. Lyra's thoughts shifted back to her family in the Lower Quarters. Mira's laughter, Jax's quiet scolding, the younger ones' wide-eyed admiration for her daring exploits. They had been her confidants, her anchors, and her heart ached to see them now, knowing she couldn't go back yet-not until she learned what the relic truly wanted from her.

Lyra swallowed, feeling the weight of centuries pressing down. This was not a trinket for a rogue. It was a key. And someone-or something-was waiting for her to use it. Or fail.

A tremor of unease ran through her as she sensed it-a presence at the edge of her awareness. Something ancient, dark, and far older than the city. The hum from the medallion flared sharply, a warning that made her hair prickle. Shadows deepened in the corners of the chamber. They weren't just the corners of the palace.

The air thickened, curling around her like invisible fingers. Lyra instinctively tightened her grip on the relic, feeling the pulse in her palm grow stronger, faster.

A whisper echoed through the stone halls, not in words but in sensation. A pull-cold, insistent, and terrifying-calling her toward the unknown.

Lyra's stomach dropped. Whatever had watched her in the market, whatever had made the medallion hum so fiercely, was awakening. And it wasn't alone.

She glanced at Cassian, who appeared from behind the corner of the room, expression unreadable but eyes sharp. "You feel it too?" she asked.

His jaw tightened. "Yes. And it won't wait for us to figure out what it wants. That thing..." he gestured at the medallion, "...has enemies. Big ones. Dangerous ones. Ones that don't play fair."

Lyra nodded slowly, fear and exhilaration mingling in her chest. She was far from home, far from safety, but for the first time, she understood the scope of her gamble. The relic was powerful, ancient, and alive-and now, it had marked her.

And the shadows that stirred beyond the walls were moving closer.