The first thing Lyra felt was the bite of iron digging into her skin.
Cold, unrelenting, merciless. Her wrists burned where the shackles held her against the damp rock wall, and the rank stench of mildew and smoke clawed at her throat. Every breath rattled in her chest, heavy with exhaustion.
When she dared to lift her head, the cavern flickered with torchlight. Shadows danced across the jagged stone, but it wasn’t just shadows—symbols were carved into the walls, etched deep, glowing faintly red. Some were painted with blood. Her blood.
Her heart lurched. A shallow bowl sat not far from her, filled with dark crimson liquid. They’d taken more from her while she’d been unconscious. She could feel the weakness in her body, the hollow drain in her veins.
Aelira, she whispered inwardly, her
