The Hollow was quiet.
Not the silence of dread, but the kind that follows a storm the hush that lets you hear your own heartbeat and wonder if it still belongs to you. Moonlight filtered through the broken canopy, painting silver across the ruins where gods had once whispered and blood had once bound.
Lyra stood at the edge of the altar, the mark on her shoulder still pulsing. Not in pain. Not in warning. But in recognition. The god’s power inside her had stilled, no longer clawing, no longer screaming. It hummed nowlow and steady, like a lullaby sung in a language older than time.
She didn’t feel like a vessel anymore.
She felt like herself.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Behind her, footsteps crunched over ash and moss. Slow. Deliberate. Familiar.
Kade.
She didn’t tur
