Lyra almost didn't notice the pain at first.
The kitchen was louder than usual, orders overlapping, tasks piling up faster than anyone could keep track. Someone shoved another tray into her hands while a different voice called her name from across the room.
"Move. We're behind."
"I am moving," Lyra muttered, squeezing past a crowded table.
Her body still felt off—heavy, slow to respond, like her strength hadn't caught up with her. Even simple movements took more effort than they should, and it was getting harder to ignore.
She reached for a knife and started cutting through a pile of vegetables, not paying enough attention.
That was enough.
The blade slipped.
A sharp sting ran through her finger.
Lyra pulled back with a small flinch, already too late. A thin line of red spread across her skin, blood rising quickly to the surface.
"…Great," she murmured.
It wasn't deep. Nothing serious.
She turned slightly and pressed it against her apron, trying to stop the bleeding without drawing attention.
No one stopped what they were doing, and no one asked.
"Don't just stand there," someone snapped. "We don't have time for that."
"I'm not," Lyra said under her breath, already moving again.
The sting lingered, but she pushed it aside. Pain was familiar.
She picked up another tray, adjusting her grip even as the fabric against her finger grew damp.
Across from her, someone hissed sharply.
"Watch it—!"
A pot shifted too fast, and hot water sloshed over the edge, splashing across the woman's wrist.
She jerked back with a sharp gasp, dropping what she held.
"Damn it—"
The skin reddened almost instantly, the burn rising angry and raw.
For a moment, movement in the kitchen slowed, then quickly resumed as if nothing had happened.
"Run it under water," someone said without looking up. "Or don't. It'll blister either way."
The woman clenched her jaw and tried to keep working, though her hand trembled slightly.
Lyra hesitated.
Getting involved wasn't smart.
It was easier to stay invisible.
But the way the woman's hand shook, the way she forced herself to keep going—
Lyra stepped closer anyway.
"Here," she said quietly.
The woman shot her an irritated look. "What?"
"Let me see."
"I said I'm fine."
"You're not."
The words slipped out before Lyra could stop them.
A brief pause stretched between them.
Then, reluctantly, the woman held out her hand.
Up close, the burn looked worse than it had from a distance—red, already swelling.
Lyra reached out instinctively.
Her injured finger brushed against the woman's wrist.
Just for a second.
A drop of blood slipped free and landed directly on the burn.
Neither of them noticed at first.
Then the woman stiffened slightly.
"…Wait."
Lyra looked up.
The redness had stopped spreading.
Right where the blood had touched, the skin looked different. Not healed, not completely, but calmer somehow—less inflamed.
Lyra frowned.
That didn't make sense.
The woman turned her wrist under the light, her expression shifting as the swelling eased, slow but visible.
"What…?"
Lyra's breath caught.
It was healing.
Not fully, but enough to notice.
Enough to be wrong.
"I didn't—" Lyra started, her voice unsteady.
The woman pulled her hand back, eyes narrowing. "What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," Lyra said quickly.
Even as she said it, her gaze dropped to her own finger.
The cut was still there.
Still bleeding.
Her chest tightened.
That didn't make sense.
Around them, a few others had started paying attention.
"What's going on?"
"Wasn't that burned?"
"It was."
The woman flexed her fingers slowly, confusion replacing the pain. "It doesn't hurt as much."
Lyra took a step back.
This was wrong.
Too visible.
Too dangerous.
"I need to get back to work," she said, already turning away.
But the attention didn't disappear. It followed in quieter ways—glances, hesitation, the subtle shift in how people moved around her.
And somewhere beyond the noise of the kitchen, someone else had seen enough.
A figure stood near the doorway, partly hidden in shadow.
Not a servant. Not a student.
Older. Composed.
His attention stayed on Lyra, not her face but her hand, the faint trace of blood she hadn't fully wiped away.
Something in his expression shifted, slow and deliberate.
"…I see," he murmured.
No one heard him.
Inside the kitchen, Lyra forced herself back into motion, picking up another task as if nothing had happened.
But her thoughts refused to settle.
Her blood had healed someone else.
But not her.
Her own cut still stung, still bled faintly beneath the cloth.
A cold unease settled in her chest.
This wasn't just strange.
It felt dangerous.
And she couldn't shake the feeling that letting anyone see it had been a mistake.
Behind her, the figure stepped away from the doorway without a sound, already certain of one thing—
Whatever this was, it wasn't something he intended to ignore.