Later that night, Lyra awoke to a faint vibration shuddering in her room; subtle, almost imagined. Everything on her desk quivered, including her quill and the letter she’d written to her father. She froze, heart quickening, listening for another quake or tremor in the earth.

  Then, another sound. A low note, soft but unmistakable. It was coming from somewhere down the hall.

  She’d hoped it wasn’t another tremor, but it wouldn’t have been a surprise if it was. She got out of her bed tentatively, wondering whether the sound would get stronger and she’d need to run, but the hum stayed at the same pitch.

  She left her night clothes on but wrapped her shawl around her, crossing to the corridor in bare feet. She passed the Archive, the lamps burning low; it was almost empty now. No one else seemed disturbed by the hum, or perhaps they simply didn’t care enough to find its cause.

  The sound deepened as she walked closer to wherever it lived, the resonance vibrating through her bones. It led her to the southern wing, to the door she hadn’t entered since returning. But then she clocked where it was taking her.

  Umbralyn quarters.

  She stilled as she realised where the sound was coming from, wondering if she should step further.

  But beneath the fear, a thrill underlined the feeling and pushed her forward. She told herself it was only the hum growing stronger. Not the thought that someone else might already be here.

  A door stood slightly ajar. Lyra’s hand lingered on the frame. Something tugged at her, quiet but insistent, like a thread pulling through her bones.

  Inside, the room was dim, dust thick on the table and the untouched cot. Time seemed paused here, yet there was no decay. A light flickered across the table. Lyra stepped closer.

  The shard from the Fracture pulsed there, etched with an unfamiliar sigil. Its glow was pale, silver - unlike anything she’d studied in the Archive.

  She reached out instinctively then stopped.

  “Don’t.” The word was quiet, but it stopped her hand mid-reach.

  She turned sharply and gasped. Caelith stood in the doorway, half-shadowed, the chains at his wrists dark against his cloak. He looked different here; less a prisoner, more a man carved from shadow and patience.

  His gaze dropped briefly to her bare feet against the cold stone floor. “You shouldn’t walk these halls at night,” he said quietly.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said quickly, blushing. “I heard something, it - ”

  “I know.” His gaze flicked to the fragment. “It called to you.”

  His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, studying her as though he were listening for something she could not hear.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Lyra hesitated, then nodded, looking at him. “What is it?”

  “A memory stone,” he said. “Not all fragments from the Fracture are the same. Some hold riddles, some memories. Some, as they say, may hold some sort of power.”

  The way he spoke made her skin prickle. “What memory does this one hold?”

  He gave almost a smile, although it seemed a bit uncertain as if he didn’t know how much to reveal. “An ancient one. It wouldn’t be for a human to understand…”

  “Why did it call to me, then?” She held his gaze as she asked it, unwilling to pretend she hadn’t heard the implication.

  For a moment he looked at her differently, as though she were part of the question itself. “That’s what I’m trying to work out, too,” he said slowly, the slight smile holding.

  The rarity of it made her blush before she quite understood why. It was strange to see him look almost… warm.

  “Ok, so is that why it’s here and not in the Archive?”

  “Partly. The others would destroy it,” he replied, the smile dropping. “I've seen your kind handling some of the others. This one... some things should not be lost, even when they’re dangerous.”

  The shard’s silver light caught his eyes, turning them to mirrors. Lyra wanted to ask more, but something in his expression stopped her. The stillness again, that poised quiet that could be sorrow or warning.

  Instead, she said softly, “You knew it would change, didn’t you? The fragments. The tremor. Caelith... do you know what's happening?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Then, quietly: “I felt it coming. The Fracture remembers what made it bleed. And memory always returns to its source.”

  Source of what? The Fracture? Her? She thought for a moment. “Then it’s not stopping, is it? Or being contained effectively anymore?”

  “No,” he said. “You know, Lyra. You know it as I do. It’s waking.”

  The words hung between them, heavy as stone. Rain lashed the window; thunder rolled somewhere beyond the mountains as though they were there for dramatic effect.

  Lyra stepped closer before she realised she was doing it. “Is it close?"

  His eyes met hers; sharp, luminous, unreadable. For a moment the room felt too small, too close.

  The silence burned between them, the distance separating them no more than a step. Lyra’s heart beat hard against her ribs, but she didn’t look away. She thought again of her father, and home.

  “You could stop it,” she whispered.

  The certainty in her voice seemed to catch him off guard.

  “I could die trying,” he said simply. “That’s not the same.”

  “Is that what you told the Elders?” She asked.

  “I gave them the truth. The Umbralyns have more power in stopping whatever is happening, more than the humans anyway. Our oath is to protect, so I asked to be able to do so effectively.”

  “Will you go to the Fracture?”

  “I am not required,” he replied. “But others will be. Despite what happened in Meridon, the Elders trust my position here.”

  Another silence stretched between them. She wanted to ask him more; to step across the thin line between knowledge and trust… but the shard pulsed in warning, and she pulled back.

  Caelith watched the fragment for a moment longer before speaking.

  “You should return to your room, Lyra. It is late.”

  The words were quiet, but not unkind. A reminder more than an order.

  She hesitated, suddenly aware of where she was. The late hour, the dim room, the fact that she had wandered into a place meant for him and his kind alone.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said again, softer this time.

  His gaze shifted back to her. For a moment it softened, though she couldn’t quite name the expression.

  “I know you didn’t,” he said. “But your kind need sleep. You may need more strength than you realise.”

  The shard pulsed faintly on the table between them.

  Lyra nodded and stepped back toward the doorway. As she passed him, she felt the strange awareness again; the quiet gravity that seemed to surround him, as though the air itself recognised his presence.

  “Write more to your father,” he said quietly as she reached the corridor. “It’s dangerous to forget what anchors you.”

  She glanced back once before leaving.

  Caelith had already turned toward the shard, the silver light catching in his eyes. When she reached the hallway, the door closed softly behind her.

  As she left, she heard the shard pulse again — once, sharp and certain — as though it had been listening.