Chapter Eighteen
The Frostborne Oath
The frost creaked beneath Lyra’s boots as she followed the strange woman deeper into the mist-draped woods. Her wolf stirred uneasily beneath her skin, sensing the magic laced into the air. Not dark, but old—older than the moon, older than fire, older than memory itself.
They passed twisted trees wrapped in silver cloth and bone charms, each one humming softly in the back of Lyra’s mind. Spirits slept here. Not in peace, but in watchfulness.
“This is sacred ground,” the woman said. “Step only where I step. The Hollow watches.”
Lyra obeyed, her breath visible in the frigid air.
“What do you mean, the Hollow watches?” she asked, voice quiet.
“The Frostborne never left the world,” the woman replied. “We simply pulled back, vanished into the deep col
