Where The Fallen Wait

Chapter Three

Lyra

Lyra had thought falling through the Gate would kill her.

She had expected pain—crushing, searing, obliterating pain. Darkness, light, nothingness, something dramatic. Instead, she awoke to silence. A cold, uncanny silence so absolute she wondered for a moment if she had gone deaf.

She sat up too fast. The room heaved and swayed. Her vision stabilised slowly.

Smooth stone walls—pale, veined faintly with silver—climbed high above her. An enormous window arched over a courtyard of impossible geometry: bridges that vanished into mist, spires that bent at unsettling angles, lanterns drifting with pale blue fire that cast no warmth at all.

She pressed her palm to her chest.

Her heart thudded.

Alive.

Gods help her—she was alive.

Memory flooded back with sharp edges.

The guards.
The priests.
The Gate flaring open.
Her desperate sprint.
Cold swallowing her whole.
The vast hall.
And him.

Arizel.

The recollection made her skin prickle. The tall, severe figure framed in the Gate chamber like a statue that had come to life purely to disapprove of her existence. His expression had been carved from dusk and judgement. Those eyes—pale, cutting, storm-bound—had pinned her in place as if she were a crack in some exquisite mirror he had not asked to own.

Arrogant bastard.

Even now, thinking about him made her pulse spike.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

A soft rustle caught her attention.

Three figures stood at the far end of the room.

Lyra jolted so hard she almost fell off the mattress. She hadn't heard them enter. They were silent as moonlight on snow: three wraith-priestesses, robed in grey, veiled from the nose down, their edges softly blurred as if they were carved from breath rather than flesh. Their eyes glowed faintly blue, steady in a way that unsettled her more than panic would have.

One inclined her head. "You are wakeful."

Lyra swallowed. "Was I... asleep?"

"You fainted," another murmured. "This is common for newly arrived souls."

Lyra hesitated. "Souls?"

"Those who cross the Veil," she clarified gently. "It is not unusual to lose consciousness. The passage can be disorienting."

Lyra's blood chilled. The priestess didn't look at her like she was strange—nothing in their calm, muted expressions suggested they realised she had arrived breathing.

Yet.

Another stepped forward with a small bowl and cloths. "We must tend your wounds, my lady."

Lyra's entire body tensed. "I can do it myself."

"You are the Tribute," the wraith said as though reciting undeniable truth. "It is our duty to care for you."

Tribute.

The lie she'd have to hold onto if she wanted to keep breathing.

Lyra exhaled shakily. "Fine. But I'll hold the cloth."

A pause. Then a small, polite nod. They handed her the bowl.

She dabbed her split lip, suppressing a wince, and turned her gaze around the room again.