The city stayed still.

  Not in fear, but from discipline.

  Movements smoothed out. Voices lowered. Even the bells seemed to ring with restraint, as if Eryssan itself had been warned not to draw attention.

  Lyra had the uneasy sense that the calm was deliberate. Master Orell had said very little when he found them in the workroom, but silence from a man like him rarely meant forgiveness. It meant observation.

  And Lyra could not shake the feeling that somewhere in the Archive, quiet decisions were already being made.

  But in that moment of calm, Lyra found it best to spend a day away from the Archives, as much as it pained her to. Instead, she walked beside Selinne toward the healer’s wing, their steps falling into their usual uneasy rhythm.

  “You’re not sleeping,” Selinne said finally.

  Lyra glanced at her. “Neither are you.”

  “I've had better nights,” she smiled. "Plus all this extra time on the fragments has left me…” She yawned, “…drained, at least.”

  Lyra gave a faint shrug. “Of course it’s hard. Half the time I feel like I’m not even here, like I’m moving through someone else’s dream.”

  Selinne gave a small, tired smile. "Absolutely."

  They passed a pair of Guardians posted at the stairwell, but they had new faces, unfamiliar marks and patterns. Selinne frowned, and waited until they were out of earshot before speaking again.

  “I keep thinking about the courtyard,” she said. “About what we saw.”

  Lyra did not slow. “Me, too. But what they said isn’t our business. And we don’t know what it meant.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Selinne hesitated. “You heard what they were saying, right? About the wraith. About it not being an accident.”

  Lyra stopped this time and turned to her fully.

  “Selinne,” she said evenly. “I know what we heard. But we must remember that we heard fragments of an argument between people who don’t trust anyone watching them. That’s not proof,” Lyra said. "It’s not even context.”

  Selinne searched her face. “You really believe that?”

  “I believe,” Lyra said carefully, “that repeating half-understood words right now would probably not be wise for us. For anyone.”

  Selinne exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. “I haven’t told anyone,” she said. “I just… needed to say it out loud.”

  Lyra nodded. “I think you're right." She hesitated a little, hoping she hadn't sounded overly defensive. "Let's keep it between us. Then if either of us hear anything else, we'll agree to tell each other first."

  Selinne nodded. "To be honest, you and Julen are the only people I trust right now.”

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  They reached Julen’s room in silence.

  He looked better than Lyra expected. Colour returned to his face, eyes sharp despite the bandages and enforced stillness. He smiled when he saw them.

  “Well,” he said, “if this is a visitation rota, I expect priority.”

  Selinne snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Julen. I see your sense of humour is returning.”

  They spoke at first of simple things: his recovery, the chaos of reassigned duties, the healer who kept threatening to sedate him if he didn’t stop asking questions.

  It was Julen who steered them back. “So, what’s happening in the lower tiers?” he asked. “No one gives the injured the truth anymore.”

  Selinne glanced at Lyra.

  “Stabilisation teams,” Lyra said. “Reinforcements. A lot of confidence.”

  She did not mention the power and the fragments. Or what Master Orell had seen.

  “And?”

  “And a lot of noise,” Lyra added. “Nothing conclusive.”

  Selinne shifted in her chair. “No, but we did see...” she stopped as she looked at Lyra, before realising what she had started to say.

  Julen noticed. Of course he did. Lyra blushed.

  “Sel,” he said gently, “would you be so kind and fetch me some water? If I hear one more healer lecture me about hydration, I might rebel.”

  Selinne hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be back.”

  Julen watched the door close behind Selinne, then looked back at Lyra.

  “You didn’t want her to say whatever she was about to say,” he said.

  Lyra gave a small, humourless smile. “You always notice that.”

  “I’m lying in a healer’s bed with nothing else to do,” he replied. “People become very obvious.”

  She sat beside him, close enough that the edge of the mattress dipped. For a moment she said nothing, eyes fixed on the window where pale light filtered through warded glass.

  “Do you ever get the feeling,” she asked finally, “that the city is listening?”

  Julen frowned. “That’s a strange way to phrase it.”

  “I mean,” she continued, carefully, “that no matter what you say, something hears the shape of it. And decides what to do with it.”

  He studied her face. “You’re being careful.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Lyra exhaled. “Because I don’t trust certainty,” she said. “Not right now.”

  Julen was quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “Is this about him?”

  She didn’t pretend not to understand.

  “Yes,” she said, softer than she intended.

  Julen nodded once. “I thought so.”

  She hesitated, then spoke as if choosing words from a limited supply.

  “He feels like standing too close to the Fracture,” she said. “Not dangerous in the way people expect. Dangerous because… everything around him… shifts, trembles, as if the air itself responds to him.”

  Julen’s gaze never left her.

  “And me. He watches me like he’s bracing for impact,” she went on. “Like I’m something that might knock him off balance if he doesn’t step back in time.” A faint smile touched her mouth, brittle. “And sometimes he does step back. Hard. As if he’s afraid of what would happen if he didn’t.”

  “That sounds exhausting,” Julen said carefully.

  “It is,” she admitted. “Because I don’t think it’s indifference. I think it’s restraint.”

  She finally looked at him then. “And restraint can be its own kind of honesty.”

  Julen considered that. “Do you trust him?”

  Lyra didn’t answer right away.

  “I don’t know if trust is the right word,” she said at last. “But when he’s near, things make a different kind of sense. And when he’s gone, I feel it. Like something has been removed, and everything else scrambles to compensate.”

  Julen’s expression softened. He sighed deeply, as if he was voicing something he had known for a while. “That sounds like someone who matters to you.”

  She swallowed. “That’s the problem.”

  He reached out and covered her hand with his own, warm and steady. “Lyra,” he said, “you don’t have to solve this now. You don’t have to name it. Sometimes knowing where you stand is enough.”

  She squeezed his fingers, grateful for the grounding weight of them.

  “Where do you think we fit in all of this, Julen? The lowly scribes." She chuckled to herself. "Whose side do you think we should be on, if any at all?”

  Julen smiled, both tired and sincere. “Well, I'll always be on yours.”

  She laughed under her breath, something in her chest easing despite herself.

  The door opened. Selinne stopped just inside the threshold, eyes flicking instinctively to their joined hands. Lyra pulled back at once, colour rising in her cheeks.

  Selinne said nothing. She simply took in the scene: the closeness, the quiet, the unspoken understanding. Then she nodded once, as if filing it away for later.

  Some things, Lyra realised, did not need to be spoken to be understood. Even amidst the shadows and fractures that loomed over them.