The ground beneath Silver Hollow groaned like a dying beast.
Lyra barely registered the sound over the roar in her veins. The cracked crown pulsed in her hands, bleeding light that stung her eyes and seared her skin. Her sigils moonlight and fire flared violently, crawling up her arms like living tattoos. The mark on her shoulder burned hotter than ever, a brand of fate she hadn’t chosen.
She dropped the crown. It clattered against the stone floor, splitting further.
The spirits were no longer whispering. They screamed.
Their voices clawed at her mind, overlapping in languages she didn’t know but somehow understood. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on trembling hands, breath coming in snarls. Her fingers curled into claws. Her vision blurred, edges sharpening unnaturally. The wolf
