Author Note:
Hi! Just a small timeline update—Dan is now 20 when he died, and Lyra is 18 after the time skip.
Why the change?
Because Lyra stormed in, kicked down the fourth wall, and demanded some changes. Something about "not getting enough spotlight" and "make it better, or else." She threatened to end my author arc. I panicked. I complied.
If you read Chapter 1 before May 11, 2025, give it another look—I made some adjustments. If you started after that, you're already in the new timeline, safe from her wrath.
Thanks for sticking with me through these chaotic edits. I swear I'm in control...
This is totally normal noob author behavior. I promise to make the chaos smoother... probably...
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The room went quiet.
Even the spoons stopped clinking.
Grandpa didn't speak at first. He just sipped his tea—slow, deliberate, like he was buying time to rewrite the past.
Lyra waited.
And I… pretended I wasn't sweating imaginary dice-sweat.
"Okay. Chill. Stay cool. Don't panic."
I was definitely panicking.
Lyra had just dropped the most emotionally-loaded question in the known universe.
And Grandpa?
He looked like someone had just handed him a live grenade and said, "Here, try to explain the meaning of life in a way a child would understand."
I was freaking out—her question just detonated my brain.
This wasn't a normal breakfast anymore.
"Can an artifact be separated from the soul inside it?" This question was a nuclear bomb to me.
Was she forcing me to resign from Lyra Airlines? I can't accept this!
I'm gonna sue her under Eden's Labor Laws!
...Okay, jokes aside—her question was a real banger.
I was born—or well, reincarnated—into this dice with no tutorial, no manual, no clue.
No one to ask, so I was FORCED to shut up and quietly accept... whatever I was.
Also in the past, she tried asking.
Back when she was little.
They just told her she was too young to know.
But now?
Now was the real deal.
And truth is—I wanted the answer just as badly.
What am I?
What was I built for?
Was I cursed? Chosen? A failed experiment?
Could I... could I ever live a normal life again?
My core pulsed with a quiet ache.
Hope and fear, fighting in the same heartbeat.
I wanted the truth.
And I was scared of it.
Grandpa still hadn't answered.
He leaned back, eyebrows drawn tight, fingers steepled like a man watching history circle back again.
"You want to know who Dan is?"
He finally spoke—voice low, steady.
"That's… not a simple story to tell."
He looked to Mom and Dad, exchanging a silent, knowing glance.
They nodded back—small, quiet motions that said more than words ever could.
This wasn't just a story.
It was a history they'd carried together… and now, it had to be told.
Lyra stayed silent, still waiting, but I saw her hand clenched tight in her lap.
Badum.
I held my breath, my chest tightening.
Like I was deep underwater—unable to breathe, but still diving deeper. Even if it meant drowning. That's how nervous I was.
Grandpa finally spoke.
"I'll start with the first question. Who is Dan?"
He paused, gathering his thoughts, then said,
"…To be honest, we don't know."
And just like that, every ounce of hope I had crumbled.
Hope?
It's the cruelest thing to want, especially when nothing goes as planned.
Deep down, I knew I shouldn't expect anything.
But hearing it out loud...
It hurt.
More than the dreams where I died over and over again.
Because this time, it wasn't a dream, a twisted destiny, or some accident I couldn't avoid.
It was emptiness.
No answer. No reason.
Just me.
Still a dice.
Still nothing.
And that hurt like hell.
Grandpa's voice came again—gentler this time.
"As for the next question... how we got him."
He sighed, rubbing his thumb slowly along the rim of his cup.
"Yes, he's our family heirloom. But—no. Let me correct myself."
"It wasn't Dan who was passed down. It was the dice."
He leaned back, eyes distant, voice growing quieter.
"Our ancestor left behind a strange note. More like a warning... or a prophecy."
"It said: the firstborn of every generation would always be a son. Always."
"But if—one day—a daughter was born first… we were to give her the dice. Immediately. No delay. No questions."
"And it said clearly—if that girl is born without the dice near her… her fate would turn tragic. Only the dice could save her."
"The note didn't explain how. Just that the dice would protect her. Bless her. Keep her connected to something beyond our understanding."
Grandpa paused, his gaze fixed somewhere far off, as if even after all these years, the words still felt strange in his mouth.
"It sounds ridiculous, I know. But here we are. For generations, it was always true. The firstborn was always a boy. Always. Without fail. Then came you, Lyra Swift."
He sighed again, this time with a heavier weight. His lips curved faintly, something bittersweet tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I was already old before you were even born. Honestly, I thought I'd leave this world quietly with no regrets." He looked at her then, his eyes softening with years of memories.
"But when your mom gave birth—and you were a girl—everything changed. Your cry... it was like water on old roots. It gave me something to hold on to."
He looked down for a moment, as if considering his next words carefully, before continuing.
"I felt something stir in me again. I refused to die, Lyra. I wanted to live. I had to see what you'd become. I had to know what the prophecy meant... and why it had been true for generations. Why the firstborn was always a boy... until you."
Grandpa paused, his eyes softening as he looked at her.
"What is so special about our family, Lyra? I've spent my life searching for the answer. But to be honest... it was always you. From the moment you were born, I knew you were more than the prophecy, more than the heirloom. You were someone I never expected—someone I never thought I'd love so much. You gave me a reason to live, a purpose beyond the legacy. And if the prophecy is real, then what's waiting for you... is dangerous. I can't help but worry. I want to see you happy, Lyra. I need to see you happy. You are the most precious thing in my life, even more than your late grandma, haha."
As if sensing that the weight of the story might be starting to sink in, Grandpa's expression softened. He leaned forward slightly, his voice gentler now, as if to reassure her that the love and pride he had for her was not just tied to the prophecy, but to who she truly was.
He looked at her then—not with mystery, but with pride.
"The one who knew that best was Kevin, for all his wisdom and patience."
"And ironically… he was the first to say no when you asked to train."
He sighed, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his cup, then looked at her again—not with mystery, but with pride.
"I know he agreed to you first, but when he personally came to us, he hesitated. He said it was too dangerous—especially with how small you were. But at the same time… he couldn't hide his excitement. Teaching a young awakened like you was something he'd never done before. It was risky, but he saw something in you. Something special."
"These days, when Kevin talks about your magic more than he talks about his own son, Levin. When he watches you train, there's a pride in his eyes that's hard to miss."
He chuckled softly, the sound barely holding together.
"You've always been full of energy. Even when you were small."
"And we knew… whatever you were meant to be, it wasn't ordinary."
"You are anything but ordinary, Lyra."
He paused, and his voice lowered—heavier now, more uncertain.
"But at the same time… your growth became our biggest fear as parents."
"If the prophecy holds any truth, then what lies ahead of you..."
He looked down, thumb tracing the edge of his cup again.
"It'll be far beyond anything we can imagine."
"You've seen it too, haven't you?"
"More and more awakened mages showing up. Strange things stirring across the land."
Grandpa looked back at her, gaze steady.
"Something big is coming, Lyra. And ready or not... it's already begun."
Lyra didn't speak right away.
Her gaze stayed locked on Grandpa. Not wide-eyed. Not teary. Just... steady. Focused.
Like she'd known.
Like she'd always known something was off, but now it finally had a shape.
Then she looked down—at her hand, resting on the table.
Her fingers slowly uncurled, like the truth had loosened something clenched inside her chest.
"…So I was never normal," she said quietly. "Not really."
There was no bitterness in her voice.
Just weariness.
Like a puzzle piece had finally clicked into place… and it wasn't the one she wanted.
Across the table, mom reached out—gently, lovingly—
Then flicked her forehead with pinpoint mom-precision.
"Silly girl," she said, her tone firm but affectionate. "Of course you're not 'normal.' You were never meant to be. You're meant to do things no one else can."
Mom smiled, her eyes twinkling. "All your 'not normal' traits—your mischievousness, your creativity—those are the things we love about you. If you were born ordinary, I swear, you'd be loved a lot less around here. Even the villagers love your uniqueness—some of them even joke, 'I wish Lyra would stay little and mischievous forever.'
She laughed softly before continuing, "And all that mischief... do you ever see us complain about it to anyone? No. We kept it, we enjoyed it, we treasured it. Whatever you are right now, you've already added so much color to our lives. You hear me, silly girl?"
Her smile softened as she leaned forward, her eyes filled with warmth.
"Lyra, being extraordinary is a gift. But it also means you don't get to fit into the same mold as everyone else. And that's okay. There's nothing wrong with not being normal. Do you think your dad, who treats me to goat cheese twice a year and calls it romantic, is normal? No, right? But that's exactly why I love him so much—because he's him."
At that moment, Dad, who'd been quietly listening, suddenly chimed in, shock and genuine terror on his face.
"That's not romantic?" he said, wide-eyed and completely disbelieving.
Lyra couldn't help herself and smirked.
"Yes… Dad is awfully stupid for that, hahaha."
"Whatever you are now—or become in the future—you'll always be our little baby girl.."
She leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, the gesture full of love and reassurance.
"Not even mana can change that."
Lyra didn't flinch.
Didn't pull away.
But her lips pressed together. And her eyes started to redden.
Then dad's voice followed—low, steady, and a little rough around the edges.
"We didn't tell you when you were five because… we didn't want you to carry all this too soon."
"We hoped—honestly, we prayed—that maybe this whole thing would skip over you."
"That maybe you'd get a quiet life. A normal one. You'd grow up, fall in love, complain about your kids the way we complained about you…"
He chuckled softly, shaking his head.
Then—quietly—Lyra looked up again.
Not at Grandpa.
Not at her parents.
At me.
Not accusing.
Not asking.
Just… searching.
Like she was trying to figure out if I had known all along, or if I could offer her the answers she didn't have.
And honestly?
I had no answer to give.
I wanted to be the answer she was looking for.
But I wasn't even sure what the question was.
And worse—what if it was never mine to answer at all?"
"I don't know anything about this," I muttered, eyes flicking away.
"You probably know more than anyone else here."
Inside, I was a mess.
A hundred questions swirling around, all of them unanswered.
She was apparently destined for something terrifying.
And me?
I was a dice.
A glorified paperweight with a sharp tongue and zero stats.
What was I even supposed to do?
Protect her?
With what—my sparkling personality?
How do you guard someone from a fate even prophecy won't look in the eye?
I didn't know what I was.
I didn't know why I was here.
But if fate put me next to her...
Then maybe—just maybe—
"And that brings us to your last question…" Grandpa said, cutting through the silence like a soft breeze through tension.
" Is it about Dan? What are you going to do about him?"
Lyra looked at Grandpa, eyes uncertain—but after a moment of quiet resolve, she spoke.
"Dan is not an artifact."
Badum.
"Dan is a person."
Badum.
"He's human. Like me. Like us. Like everyone else."
She turned slightly, glancing at each of them—then back at Grandpa.
"Grandpa you remember what I used to say, right? About how Dan came from a place called Earth?
A world where buildings touch the sky—some so tall they disappear into the clouds, taller than dragons could ever fly.
Where people fly in birds without feather wings but metal.
Where they speak to each other across oceans through glass boxes that glow.
Where they light cities brighter than the stars and travel faster than sound—without a single drop of magic."
"You probably thought it was just childhood nonsense. But I believed him. I still do."
Her voice softened. Almost trembling.
"He has a soul. He has feelings. I've felt them."
"The sadness… the way he sits in that quiet corner of the cube, trying not to be noticed."
"You might not hear it. But I do."
Badum.
"He never said it out loud, but I know. If I were trapped like him—stuck inside a box all these years—I'd have gone insane. I think he almost did."
"But he hides it."
"With sharp words. With jokes. That laugh. The smart remarks. That mischievous voice, always acting like nothing's wrong."
"But I've seen the cracks. Even when he's smiling."
She paused, eyes flickering to the floor—then back up, burning with memory.
"I remember them clearly. Those little cracks."
"Like when I tripped and fell as a kid—Dad picked me up, I cried, and you hugged me... and I felt it. Dan missed that. Missed being held like that."
"Or that time I screamed at Mom… just being a brat."
"I felt it then too. That jolt of anger from him."
"Not the kind that wanted to scold me... but the kind that cracked from somewhere deeper."
"Like he couldn't bear to hear a child throw away something he no longer had."
"Like my voice reminded him of a home he'd lost. A mother he couldn't yell at. A father he'd never hug again."
"…Because he lost them. And I still have mine."
"And behind all of that… was silence."
A breath.
A heartbeat.
"I know he tries to hide it. But I've seen it.
Every time I'm laughing, smiling, living my life—he's there in the corner, quiet. Watching.
And that's why I can't help but care.
Because no one should have to be that lonely while pretending to be okay."
"I want him to be happy too." her voice firm, yet soft with sincerity.
"What he's lost in his world… I know I can't bring it back. But maybe I can help him find something new. Or create something with him—something that could make him smile again. Make him feel like he belongs here."
She looked up—her gaze steady, voice clear now.
"So I'm going to find a way. I don't know how. But I will."
"I want to save Dan. I want him to feel alive again."
"I want him to walk in this world with his own feet. Not just bounce around in someone's pocket."
"I want people to know him. To see him. Remember him."
"Not as a thing. Not as a tool."
She smiled.
"But as Dan."
That's when my last of defense was pierced.
A hush settled over the room.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
I didn't speak right away.
What could I even say to that?
For once, I didn't have a snarky comeback. My cube just… sat there. Quiet.
The silence stretched. I hated it. It made the truth feel too real.
So I did what I always do when I'm cornered.
I cracked a joke.
Before anyone could respond—
"...Hey, girl."
"Are you confessing to me right now?"
I waited.
She didn't deny it.
Didn't laugh either.
And that's when it hit me—
She meant it. Every word.
Just kept looking at me like I was something that mattered.
I wobbled in place.
My voice came out softer than usual—half a smile, half a crack.
"I mean… don't get me wrong. That was a solid speech."
"Ten out of ten. Brought the whole table to tears. Even the spoons are emotional."
Still nothing. Still watching.
"…Okay, fine."
I let the silence press a little longer.
"Maybe… it was a little too good."
I turned away. Not that it helped.
Hard to face someone when you're a cube.
"I didn't think anyone would say stuff like that. Not to me."
A dry laugh escaped. "Dice don't get speeches."
Something pressed up from inside—tight, aching, stupidly warm.
My core pulsed once.
Not fire.
Not mana.
Something worse.
Something I hate the most today.
Hope.
Badum.
Badum.
Badum.
"I really thought I was doing a great job, y'know? Cracking jokes. Acting like I'm okay. You laugh, I roll, we move on."
Pause.
"But you saw it anyway."
The quiet part of me. The one that aches when no one's looking.
"And I don't know what to do with that."
Because it means I'm not invisible anymore.
My voice caught. Just slightly. I hated that it did.
"I didn't ask for you to notice.
But I'm glad you did."
And then—
Tears.
Not the kind you cry with eyes.
The kind that start somewhere deep in your soul—
like your heart forgot how to be held,
and someone just reminded it what warmth feels like.
I shook.
"…Thank you."
Soft.
Barely a whisper.
"But also—never say that stuff again. I'm gonna short-circuit from emotional overload, okay? I'm built for sass, not sentiment."
"…But really. Thank you."
That's when my last wall of defense was shattered.