Lyra woke slowly, as if surfacing through water that didn’t want to let her go. Her head felt heavy, her body weak, every limb weighted down with exhaustion. The faint crackle of the fire in her room and the muted sounds of the packhouse reached her ears, grounding her back into reality. She remembered the darkness that had swallowed her after the confrontation with Mary, the feeling of her chest seizing, the fear clawing at her before everything faded and her last words before she was unconscious the second time. Now, only soreness lingered, threaded with an emptiness she couldn’t quite name.
When she tried to sit up, her vision swam. She clutched the edge of the bed, drawing in steadying breaths. That was when the door creaked open.
Lucian filled the frame, his presence sharp as ever,
