Lyra had learned that in Hollow Ridge, “quiet day” was a curse.
By midafternoon, she’d fixed a squeaky door hinge, yelled at Theo for trying to hot‑patch a live sensor, and rescued two pups from under a porch where they’d become “stuck on purpose.” The sky was high and clear, the wind lazy. Her wolf was almost…bored.
Which, of course, was when Atlas stuck his head into the garage.
“Lyra,” he said. “You, Cassian, Nia—front yard. Ten minutes.”
She wiped grease off her fingers. “We under attack or getting a picnic?”
“Field test,” he said. “For your little theater at the ravine. I want to see it with my own eyes.”
Nia, already tightening wraps around her hands, grinned. “Ooh. Dress rehearsal.”
“Excellent,” Theo muttered. “Nothing like intentionally provoking hypothetical enemies to make
