She returned at dawn.
Hair tangled, eyes red, dress streaked with dirt and dried blood she wasn’t even sure was hers. The fire at camp had long since died. Raze was the first to see her—his blade half-drawn before recognition kicked in. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once and stepped aside.
Cain barely looked up. “You look like shit.”
“Feel worse,” she muttered, brushing past him.
Lyra was seated near the ashes, chewing a piece of jerky like it owed her money. When she spotted Aelira, she stood—slowly. Cautiously.
“You ran.”
“I know.”
“You left him.”
Aelira blinked. “He left me first.”
Lyra’s jaw twitched. “You don’t get to throw that at me like it makes you the victim.”
“I’m not the victim,” Aelira snapped. “I’m the one who just had a version of herself walk out of a forest
