The first thing that hits after Nyra drops is the quiet.
Not peace. Not relief.
The kind of quiet you get when the world is holding its breath because it’s not sure if it’s allowed to keep spinning.
Nyra is folded over Eryndor like her body chose him as an anchor in the exact same moment her mind chose absence. Her hair is everywhere—stuck to blood and sweat, haloed by the fog that’s finally thinning. Eryndor is on his knees, blade still in his chest, shadow flickering like it’s running on spite and a prayer. His hands—steady even now—are braced on her back like he’s refusing to let her hit the ground harder than she already has.
My net is still up.
It’s instinct at this point. The interference lattice lives in my muscles now, not my brain. It hums along my skin, tight and angry, like
