The forest breathed around them — alive, trembling, whispering with the kind of tension that comes before disaster. Every gust of wind carried the scent of ash and fear. Lucian’s hand brushed against Lyra’s as they ran, their footsteps thudding through the mud, their breath heavy and uneven. The air was cold, yet sweat clung to their skin.
Behind them, the howl of pursuit rose again — a dozen voices, maybe more, echoing through the night.
Lyra’s heart thundered. They’re not giving up.
No, Lucian’s voice came through their thin mind-link, sharp but protective. They won’t stop until they have you in chains again.
The word chains made Lyra’s stomach twist. Her wrists still burned from the silver restraints, faint marks glowing faintly under her skin. The Elders had called it a “containmen
