Lyra woke with a grinding headache that felt like cold iron clamps around her skull. The effort to detect and mentally repel Kael’s spy had cost her more than she cared to admit. Since arriving at the fortress, her psychic defense perimeter was constantly active, turning the world into a painful, echoing chamber, forcing her to filter constant, low-level mental noise.
She tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea forced her to lie back down on the furs. Her room, the same one Beta Leon had given her, felt oppressively warm, and her skin was clammy. This wasn't just tiredness; it was the brutal backlash of deep-sight usage, a psychic hangover that left her physically depleted.
A soft knock came at the door, and Ronan entered without waiting, carrying a simple wooden tray. He wore only a loose
