Pyrrhic

━━ XV

THAT NIGHT, LYRA DID NOT HAVE GOOD DREAMS. She was not one to usually dream in the same manner as demigods. The last vivid one she remembered having was the one where she was Zoë Nightshade and the world still had not turned its back on her. And while she knew she saw some things while she slept, she was not sure she could classify them as proper 'dreams', as the ones her fellow cabinmates would talk about. She never paid that much mind, though. She was not sure she wanted to have them.

After Chiron had insisted they talk about what happened with the Labyrinth in the morning, Lyra did not know if she could fall asleep. She did. But it did not come with rest.

In her dream, she was anxious. There was nothing  happening, but the stiffness in her spine was clue enough: something was wrong.

She was standing on the threshold of an apartment. Someone was arguing behind some other nearby door, but not close enough for her to hear their words. All she could focus on was in what was in front of her, what appeared to be a normal apartment: half-empty coffee mugs on the table, liquor bottles scattered all around the living room, an endless pile of unwashed dishes in the kitchen. It was familiar, natural, as if she expected this mess. Lyra was not familiar with anything of the sort.

But there was still a heavy weight on her stomach.

"Mom?" She said, her voice a little different than Lyra's: it was deeper, more tired, worn-out. But it still sounded familiar. She stepped into the messy home. "Mom, are you here?"

No one replied. She stepped further into the room, forgetting to close the door behind her. There was only silence to accompany her, alongside the smell of enclosure, as if this apartment had not been opened for a while. But there was no mold on the coffee mugs—it could not have been more than two days since someone drank from them. Lyra wondered why she knew that, why this girl knew that.

"Mom, this isn't funny," she tried again, but there was no answer. "I said I was sorry. I am, you know. For leaving."

Silence.

She sighed, irritated. "And you're making me lie again. I'm not—"

The sight of an open door cut off her words. She briskly walked towards the room, peered inside, no one. It was a bedroom, but it didn't look like someone had lived in it recently, if ever. The walls were completely white, there was nothing on the floor, and only a small bed occupied the space. The bed was unmade, the only indication that someone had used this room, but there was nothing else that told Lyra who this bedroom belonged to. It didn't look like it was this girl's mom's.

The sight did not ease the bad feeling.

Then she walked to the next closed door, this time with more purpose. She opened it, finger tightly graspin the door handle. This bedroom had a little more furniture: a bigger bed with different colored sheets, none of the same set, and plenty of pillows. Everything was in disarray. More bottles on the floor, yet no liquid spilled. There was a closet, but only few clothes in it: all in dark colours, black and purple and burgundy. A bottle of perfume was open, but she couldn't smell its fragrance.

There was a last door. She didn't have the chance to walk towards it. As she got out of the bedroom, she saw a man standing in the living room.

It didn't scare her. She felt his presence a moment before. Her shoulders still tensed.

"Stella," he stiffly greeted.

The man had hair that went to his shoulders, so dark it almost looked purple. His eyes were purple, the color of grapes. He was wearing a black suit, but it looked uncomfortable, as if he was not used to such garments. The tie around his neck was loose, the first buttons unmade, and there was an angry red flush going upwards from his chest to his face. He looked like he had been running.