‘What is?’ Lyra asked.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with today, my Queen.”
Dinner was a quiet, comforting routine.
The kitchen filled with the delicious steam of handmade pork dumplings and boiling vegetable soup.
Her mother hummed a soft, old melody while deftly folding the edges of the dough, and Lyra sat across from her, replicating the movements with practiced ease.
The familiar, domestic rhythm fully washed away the toxic remnants of the afternoon.
“Look at that,” her mother noted, examining one of Lyra’s finished dumplings.
“Your technique has vastly improved.”
“I’d certainly hope so,” Lyra said, placing it on the wooden tray.
“I’ve had years of practice, and the best teacher to coach me, if I still don’t know anything, then definitely, something is wrong with me.”
“Please, do you remember when you were eight? You used to make dumplings that looked like literal rocks. Your father and I practically chipped our teeth trying to chew them.”
“I was eight!” Lyra protested, her cheeks flushing pink.
“And they were totally edible!”
“Barely,” her mother shot back, her eyes crinkling with pure amusement.
Both of them burst into a loud, genuine fit of laughter that echoed through the small house.
Sitting quietly on the edge of the spice rack, Myrmor observed the scene with quiet, ancient eyes.
The sheer, untainted warmth inside this tiny, impoverished home was a concept the old Sovereign hadn’t witnessed in millennia.
Empires were built on blood and contracts; this was something entirely different.
Right as the last bowl was cleared from the table, a sharp, heavy knock shattered the quiet safety of the house.
*Knock.
Knock.
Knock.*
“I’ll get it,” Lyra said, pulling herself up from the wooden chair.
She opened the front door, expecting a neighbor asking to borrow sugar.
Instead, a young courier dressed in the pristine, silver trimmed uniform of the Silvercrest Education Council stood on the porch.
“Mrs. Vale’s residence?” the courier asked, his voice professional but tired.
“Yes,” Lyra said.
The man tapped his tablet, pulling up the district registry before reaching into his bag.
He searched through a stack of official white envelopes.
Then he searched again.
His practiced, customer-service smile slowly began to stiffen, turning into something deeply awkward.
He checked the bag a third time, his face flushing slightly.
“…I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”
Lyra’s stomach instantly dropped into a cold, bottomless void.
“What is it?”
“I… there doesn’t appear to be an official admission or placement letter for a Lyra Vale in the system,” the courier muttered, refusing to look her in the eye.
Silence stretched over the porch, heavy and suffocating.
Every single graduate who awakened a beast soul, even the most basic, common-grade farm animals, received at least one or two invitations from local vocational or low-tier academies.
It was standard civic policy.
She had received absolutely nothing.
She had been completely blacklisted by the automated algorithm.
“I’m truly sorry,” the courier repeated, shifting his weight uncomfortably.
“Independent application registries open up next month… though…” He hesitated, his eyes glancing briefly toward the floor.
“…with a standard insect classification… the manual review boards rarely approve admissions. The system views it as a waste of academic funding.”
Behind her, her mother’s face went entirely cold.
She immediately stepped forward, her voice sharp with protective anger.
“My daughter passed her metrics! She has a right to—”
“It’s alright, Mom,” Lyra interrupted softly, her voice remarkably calm despite the absolute hollow feeling in her chest.
She forced a polite, respectful smile to the courier.
“Thank you for coming all this way so late. Have a safe night.”
The courier gave a hasty, deeply apologetic bow and practically sprinted back toward his scooter.
Her mother looked at her, her lips trembling as she prepared a speech about fighting the council.
But as she saw the quiet, exhausted look in her daughter’s eyes, the anger vanished.
Instead, she simply stepped forward and pulled Lyra into a fiercely tight, crushing embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Lyra,” her mother whispered into her hair, her voice breaking.
Lyra blinked, staring blankly at the wall over her mother’s shoulder.
“…Why are you apologizing, Mom? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I wanted today to be perfect for you,” her mother choked out, her grip tightening.
“I wanted you to have a future outside this district. It’s not fair.”
“It’s okay,” Lyra murmured, hugging her back with her one good arm.
“I’ll be okay. I’ll figure something out.”
She wasn’t sure if she believed a single syllable coming out of her own mouth.
An hour later, unable to endure the suffocating, heavy atmosphere of the quiet living room, Lyra slipped out the back door.
The small backyard overlooked a vast, overgrown abandoned field that stretched into the shadows of the city’s outer walls.
A massive, ancient oak tree stood near the sagging wooden fence, its leaves rustling softly in the cool night breeze.
She walked over and sat down on the weathered wooden bench beneath its boughs, staring into the dark grass.
“…Myrmor.”
“I am here, Lyra.”
“Why me?” she asked, her voice cracking as the raw emotion she had been suppressing all day finally leaked out.
She looked down at her palm, where the tiny ant crawled out from her sleeve.
“You’re clearly not a normal beast. You have a voice. You are wise and definitely more intelligent than most beasts I’ve seen and heard about, You could have chosen anyone in that hall.”
She looked back toward the glittering lights of the high districts.
“There were noble heirs with draconic bloodlines. There were geniuses with wolves and phoenixes. People who could actually give you resources. So why… why choose an ordinary, nameless girl from the slums?”
Myrmor climbed onto the rough wood of the bench, turning his tiny golden eyes toward the endless dark sky.
“The mortal world completely worships strength that loudly announces itself,” Myrmor’s voice echoed in her consciousness, heavy with imperial weight.
“It sings praises to the roaring lions. It kneels before the soaring eagles. It trembles before the mighty dragons. They are magnificent. They deserve their admiration.”
He paused, a profound gravity settling over the bench.