Silence.
Then,
THWACK.
Arrow. Straight to the face.
"…Ow."
I blinked. Groaned. Brain still rebooting.
"Which absolute lunatic throws arrows like that?!"
"Lyra?! Is it you again?!"
And then—
I saw her.
Taller. Leaner. Confident.
Wearing something practical, travel-worn.
She looked… familiar. But also... not.
Then she grinned.
That grin.
That dumb, chaotic, reckless grin.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
I knew that grin.
It made no sense. She was supposed to be five. Not towering like some adolescent Amazon who minored in archery homicide.
And definitely not this good at landing arrows directly into someone's skull.
"Who are you?" I asked, trying to play it cool.
As if I wasn't just getting emotionally mugged by puberty incarnate.
THWACK!
"HEY! Lady! Be careful with your toys!"
THWACK! Another arrow zipped past.
"YOU FINALLY WOKE UP, STUPID DICE!!"
"What do you mean? Who even—?"
THWACK!
THWACK!
"AFTER. ELEVEN. YEARS!!!"
"…Wait. Hold on. Eleven WHAT now?!"
THWACK!
THWACK!
THWACK!
"Tch. Took you long enough."
I blinked again. She crossed her arms.
Her mouth stayed steady.
But her lashes trembled—just for a second.
Her voice didn't crack—
But her eyes did.
"I almost gave up on you, y'know," she said.
"I nearly left you on the orphanage steps. Wrapped you in a dishcloth. With a note that read:
'Free cursed dice. Slightly broken. May explode when stepped on.'"
💀
I couldn't respond. Just… stared.
Soul still rebooting. Mind buffering.
Then she stepped forward.
Picked me up.
Held me gently—like I was something breakable.
Something… precious.
Her eyes were red.
"You missed my birthday," she whispered.
"Eleven times."
"I called for you. Every year. Every day. Every night.
I shouted, whispered, prayed—
I threw you, shook you, even dropped you in freezing water just to see if you'd react."
Her grip trembled.
"I screamed your name in the rain.
I hugged you so tight I thought I'd snap your corners off."
She laughed bitterly, wiping her eyes.
"I thought maybe I was cursed. Maybe I was broken.
Or maybe… maybe you were just gone."
She pressed her forehead to me.
"I still talked to you. Told you everything. About my training.
Dad's stupidity. Mom's nagging. Grandpa's wild stories.
Kevin's teachings. Levin's dumb mustache phase."
I think I saw them.
In my dreams.
Fuzzy. Like shadows of memories that weren't mine—but were.
She took a shaky breath.
"And you never answered. Not once."
"I... I tried to scream back," I whispered.
"There were moments I could feel you. Hear your voice cry out.
But I was buried. Trapped inside something—like my own heartbeat."
Her tears fell harder.
"I thought you didn't want me anymore.
That you went silent because… I wasn't enough."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
Even after all the tantrums, the teasing, the bickering—
I realized I had always held a place in her heart.
Somewhere real. Somewhere that mattered.
"Lyra…"
Something inside me was cracking.
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't mean to leave you. I didn't even know I was gone."
She didn't say anything.
Just held me tighter.
"I know you didn't mean it," she said, her voice softer.
"I heard it—on that day. I was training with Kevin when suddenly… I heard your scream.
You were in so much pain, but your voice kept getting quieter. Until you stopped completely."
"The dice… you started spasming. You wouldn't stop.
The adults said there was nothing they could do. That we just had to wait."
"And then—one day—I heard crying.
Your crying."
Her voice cracked.
"It felt… lonely. So lonely.
I don't know why, but hearing you cry made my chest hurt.
I cried with you, without even knowing why."
She wiped her eyes.
"And after that… silence. For so long.
I kept telling you stories. I held you close. But you never made a sound.
Until today. When I suddenly heard your voice in my head—bragging about something like an idiot."
She laughed and sobbed at the same time.
Loudly. Honestly. Just like her five-year-old self.
"I'm so sorry, Lyra."
And somehow—without another word—
I knew she forgave me.
But still—
"I hate you," she whispered.
And it hit harder than any magic.
"I hate you so much for leaving me.
For making me feel worthless.
For making me think you hated me. Because I teased you. Because I clung to you."
"I hated you. More and more. Every single day."
I stayed quiet.
Because she wasn't wrong.
"…So did you really give up on me?" I asked gently.
"I did," she said, brushing her cheeks.
"Every morning."
"I gave up on you. And then… I'd regret it."
Dan blinked. "…Wait. How exactly did you try to give me up?"
She looked away. Sniffled.
"Shooting arrows."
"...What."
"To the face."
"...For how long?"
"Six years."
A pause.
"Seven, if we count the flaming ones."
"...Flaming?"
"Yeah. Oil-dipped tips. Don't ask."
"Oh boy. I'm not sure waking up was a blessing or the prelude to hell…"
Without warning, she pulled me into a tight hug.
And for the first time in years—
I felt warm.
Not from mana.
Not from magic.
From her.
From the part of her that waited.
But let's not lie—
Some of that warmth was absolutely chest-based.
"Okay, maybe it's both."
"But her chest is suspiciously comfy."
And wow.
The brat really grew up.
This could make a nice sofa.
"I CAN HEAR YOU, PERV."
And then—
She yeeted me.
Like there was no tomorrow.
Like she'd been waiting eleven years for this moment.
Maybe it was all the bottled-up emotions.
Or maybe it was just Lyra being Lyra.
But this yeet?
This was different.
She added wind magic to it.
BAM. Straight into a wall.
I was embedded like a decorative wall ornament.
"LYRA, I THOUGHT YOU MISSED ME!!"
"WHY ARE YOU THROWING ME AGAIN?!"
She dusted her hands and grinned.
"Dummy dice."
Then she giggled.
That sound.
That dumb, chaotic, wonderfully annoying sound.
It jolted me fully awake.
She wasn't a kid anymore.
She'd grown.
She looked strong. Confident.
Standing there, wind-tousled hair, tear-glistened cheeks—
And when she smiled at me…
For the first time—
I didn't just see Lyra.
I saw a woman.
Sunlight spilled through the window behind her like a blessing.
Her hair had grown long and wild, catching the light like it had stories of its own.
Her eyes—still that impossible sapphire—held something deeper now.
She wore a short tunic tied at the waist with a worn sash.
Not for fashion.
For survival. For strength. For freedom.
She didn't dress to impress.
She dressed to survive. To move. To fight.
To live.
Just like the Lyra I used to know would've dressed.
And she carried herself like someone who had already fallen, stood back up, and dared the world to try again.
She wasn't some little girl dragging me around anymore.
She stood tall.
Steady.
Firmer.
Fuller.
I meant that one.
And when she smiled?
Something inside me glitched.
That smile hadn't changed. Not really.
Still reckless. Still hers.
But now… it carried weight.
History.
Pain.
Growth.
Hope.
All the years I missed.
And for the first time since waking—
I realized something both heartbreaking and beautiful.
She didn't just grow up.
She waited for me.
Innocent. Real. Beautiful.
"I'm home, Lyra."