Lyra stood at the edge of the Shadowlands, her body trembling beneath the weight of the god’s grief. The mark on her shoulder once a symbol of choice now flared like a wound. Gold and silver bled into her skin, pulsing with every heartbeat. She had chosen love. She had chosen Kade.
And now, the world was unraveling.
Behind her, the trees groaned. Shadows twisted. The spirits whispered in fractured tongues, their voices no longer demanding choicebut mourning it.
Jaren emerged from the darkness.
But he wasn’t Jaren anymore.
His eyes glowed like embers, his skin shimmered with heat, and the sigil on his chest had split—no longer red, but blackened at the edges, corrupted by loss. The forest recoiled from him. Even the spirits hesitated.
“You chose him,” he said, voice low, voice wrong.
