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Chapter 86
The Polygraph
Lyra’s frail form quivers, and as she opens her
mouth, the words spill out—sharp, jagged, like shards of glass crashing against
the silence. But it’s not just one voice that escapes her lips. No, it’s many,
tangled together in a chorus of sorrow, regret, and fury—high and low, young
and old, male and female—each one layered over the other, intertwining into a
broken symphony.
“You… were the first,” she breathes, her voice
rising and falling in a mournful rhythm, like the tide pulling away from the
shore. “The weapons of massacre. Because of you, all died. Because of you, the
kingdom fell, burned, destroyed. Arthur… he… named it, as a jest, Camelot, and
enslaved your daughter, renaming her… Camelyn…”
Her words hang in the air like heavy fog, thick
and suffocating, swallowing the space around us. The present itself seems to
warp, as if reality is bending under the weight of her voice. It’s like the
world is straining against something ancient, something terrible. Lyra’s hands
tremble, her fingers clawing at the empty space as if she’s searching for
something, anything, to hold onto. But there’s nothing. Only the unbearable
weight of the past, of the souls she channels, each one pulling her deeper into
its sorrow. Her eyes, dark and hollow, flicker—just for a moment—with the
faintest trace of recognition. But it’s fleeting, a wisp of a ghost trying, and
failing, to anchor itself in this moment.
The air is thick with Soul Magic—the overwhelming
force of it—and it clings to Lyra’s being, intertwining with the voices of the
lost. Their suffering is woven into her, their pain a constant companion. It’s
like I can feel it, too, a weight pressing against my chest, squeezing the
breath from my lungs. And as I watch her, I realize, with a sudden jolt, what’s
happening. Lyra isn’t just speaking the words. She’s reliving them.
The air feels colder. I can see it in her
eyes—those black, empty voids that swallow all light. They reflect nothing but
shadows, twisted shapes, burning cities, war-torn landscapes, a kingdom reduced
to nothing but ash. The truth cuts through me like a dagger: Lyra isn’t just
telling us this. She’s trapped in it. The cries of the fallen, the echoes of a
lost kingdom, all of it binds itself to her soul, clawing at her, crying out
for vengeance.
My breath catches in my throat, and my heart
stutters. I watch her, helpless, consumed by the weight of her memories. The
desperation in my chest tightens, and I feel it, too—the pull, the suffocating
grip of the past threatening to drown her, to keep her bound there forever.
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“Selene!” My voice breaks, the sound jagged, raw.
I reach out for her, desperate, as if I can somehow pull my sister from this
nightmare. What if Lyra stays lost there, forever? What if she’s trapped,
unable to return?
Selene’s tears fall, quiet and steady, each one a
tiny thread unraveling from her heart. But she moves without hesitation,
crossing the distance between them with the grace of someone who knows exactly
what to do. She wraps her arms around Lyra, pulling her close, grounding her.
An anchor. A lifeline.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…” Selene whispers,
her voice trembling, fragile as the last notes of a forgotten lullaby. It’s a
prayer, a quiet plea for Lyra to return, for her to come back to the present.
For a moment, everything goes still. The world
seems to hold its breath, as if waiting for something to shift. The tension is
thick, like a storm on the horizon. Then, slowly, as if from a place far away,
Lyra’s eyes begin to clear. The past lifts, just a little—like fog parting for
a brief moment. But the weariness is still there, etched deeply into her face,
her eyes clouded with exhaustion.
Her voice comes out shaky, fragile, like she’s
trying to find her footing in a world that doesn’t quite feel real. "What…
what just happened?"
Selene exhales a soft sigh, one heavy with
sorrow, and her words come out in a quiet breath. "It… happened," she
whispers, the words barely there, like speaking louder might shatter the
fragile calm hanging between us.
Isabella and Grayson stand frozen, still as
statues. Their expressions are locked in stunned silence. They exchange a
glance—a look that’s full of meaning, an unspoken understanding that seems to
reach back into time. Their stillness speaks louder than any words ever could.
The weight of Lyra’s outburst hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. But
they’re too overwhelmed to speak, as if the flood of emotion still lingers in
the room, rendering them speechless.
I turn to them, my body heavy, chest tight with
something I can’t name. My thoughts race, a blur of confusion. I take a slow
breath, trying to steady myself. "My apologies," I say softly, the
words feeling thick in my throat. "She… has trouble controlling her
powers."
Grayson d''Acier watches me closely, his brow
furrowing as if weighing my words carefully. A faint smile tugs at the corners
of his lips, a mixture of amusement and understanding in his gaze. Then, a low
chuckle escapes him, deep and rumbling from his chest. "Ah, I see
now," he says, his voice laced with both amusement and insight. "She
fills in the gaps, doesn’t she? Activates when truths are hidden, when lies are
spoken… an unfortunate side effect, I suppose."
The weight of his words hits me like a tidal
wave. My stomach tightens as the full meaning crashes over me. I nod slowly,
struggling to wrap my mind around the magnitude of what he’s just revealed.
"Yes… that''s correct," I whisper, my voice barely audible, the truth
too heavy to fully grasp.