The wind howled softly around the tower, a lonely sound that amplified the silence in Ronan’s private chambers. The maps and manifests from the afternoon lay forgotten. Only the low fire in the hearth offered warmth and light.
Lyra stood by the window, not looking out at the snow-laden world, but inward. The truth of the mission had settled deep in her bones: she was the key, and the key was highly perishable. If Theron decided to solve his problem with force, she would be the first to fall.
Ronan came up behind her, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders, his thumbs gently stroking the curve of her neck. His massive presence was a comfort, but tonight, it felt like a fragile shield against the world.
"Lyra," he murmured, his voice thick with unvoiced anxiety. "I don't like this. Se
