Lyra floated.
Not in air, not in water—but in something older. The space between breath and silence. Her body lay still in the clearing, but her soul drifted through a realm of silver mist and whispering flame.
The spirits circled her, their voices low and mournful.
“She burns too brightly.”
“She loves too deeply.”
“She will break.”
Lyra reached for something or someone but her hands passed through memory. Kade’s steady gaze. Jaren’s wicked smile. The crown. The mark. The choice.
She was everything. She was nothing.
And then
A voice, ancient and female, echoed through the mist. “You are not ready.”
Lyra turned. “Ready for what?”
“To be Queen. To be loved. To be feared.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No,” the voice said. “But you *chose* it.”
The mist parted.
A vision blo
