Lyra couldn’t stop feeling hollow.
Not trembling, not panicking—just scraped out where Silas’s magic had hooked in. Back in Atlas’s office, with the door shut and the border feeds muted, it was almost worse.
Maps covered one wall, pins and red string crisscrossing Hollow Ridge. Atlas leaned against his desk, Darius a solid shadow nearby. Cassian took the spot by the door, close enough to reach her, far enough not to crowd.
“Again,” Atlas said. “From when you scented them.”
Lyra kept her eyes on the map. “Ravine seams. Wards and cameras overlap. Their scent was a few hours old. Silas. Jonah. At least one more from my old pack.”
“Scouts and ritual support,” Darius said.
“Both,” she agreed. “Silas loves an audience.”
“And then he pushed a call through the wards,” Cassian said, jaw tigh
