Lyra and Ronan were in his study, a Spartan room high in the Nighfang spire, designed for strategic quiet rather than comfort. The heavy oak door was barred, and Finn stood guard inside, his usual sardonic expression replaced by professional alertness, parchment and charcoal in hand.
Lyra sat on a simple stool, her hands resting lightly on the great table's cold surface. Ronan stood behind her, his large hands resting on her shoulders, the heat of his presence a solid, tangible tether against the mental void she was about to enter.
"I need details, Lyra," Ronan murmured into her hair. "Not a prophecy. A map. A name. A fault line. Pinpoint the Shadowfang’s weakness."
She nodded, closing her eyes. She focused on the concept of Shadowfang, the dark, distant Pack allied with Kael. She pictu
