The High Oracle had warned her:
“To awaken what is sealed, you must surrender what the world thinks defines you.”
Lyra knelt before the mirror altar. Her reflection shimmered — strong eyes, steady breath, and the long dark hair that had always drawn admiration.
Slowly, she gathered it in her hands.
“For too long,” she murmured, “I have worn what others worship.”
The blade sliced cleanly through the thick braid.
It fell heavily against the marble floor.
The air shifted.
A hum, deep and ancient, vibrated through the temple walls. Lyra did not hesitate. She lifted the blade again, shorter strokes now, severing the rest. Strands drifted down like dark feathers.
As the final lengths fell, wind surged through the chamber though no doors were open. The mirror cracked with a sharp sound, not from breaking — but from revealing.
Beneath the last layer of hair, glowing sigils began to bloom across her scalp, faint at first, then brilliant. Lines of silver light traced ancient constellations across her skin.
She gasped — not in pain, but in awakening.
The seal had been bound to vanity. To tradition. To appearance.
Without hair, nothing blocked the markings. Nothing muted the current rising through her.
Her reflection transformed. Bald, radiant, fierce — she looked less like a courtly maiden and more like a celestial warrior carved from starlight.
The temple doors burst open as a storm gathered overhead.
Outside, soldiers of the Shadow Host advanced on the capital. They expected a princess guarded by ceremony and silk.
Instead, Lyra stepped into the night wind bare-scalped and blazing, sigils glowing like a living crown.
Arrows loosed toward her dissolved midair.
The ground trembled beneath her feet.
Power did not live in her hair.
It lived in her choice.
And as lightning coiled around her raised hand, Lyra understood something no tradition had ever taught:
A crown is not worn.
It is claimed.