Anton’s POV
The damp, suffocating darkness of the servants’ tunnels was a stark, jarring contrast to the gold-leafed slaughterhouse Anton had just left behind.
He moved with a frantic, desperate speed, his boots splashing through the shallow puddles of condensation that coated the uneven stone floor. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, screaming with a hot, jagged agony every time he took a step.
The catastrophic, impossible shockwave that had erupted from Lyra’s womb had fractured his humerus and cracked at least three of his ribs, turning every breath into a battle.
He gritted his teeth, swallowing the coppery taste of blood pooling in the back of his throat. Above him, muffled by tons of ancient castle stone, he could hear the heavy, rhythmic thud of Vanguard boots and the dist
