The air felt too thick.
After the call with Mira, after Atlas’s “we’ll prepare” and Elara’s calm steel, after Cassian’s quiet, simmering anger at the idea of Silas aiming anything through their wards again, Lyra’s skin buzzed like she’d taken a current straight to the veins.
She lasted fifteen more minutes in the house.
Then she grabbed her keys and slipped toward the side door.
“Don’t vanish,” Elara said mildly from the kitchen doorway, as if she’d been waiting.
“Just a run,” Lyra replied. “Not an exile. I’ll be back before dinner.”
Elara studied her a beat, then nodded. “Stay inside the outer line.”
Lyra’s wolf huffed. “Yes, Luna.”
The truck growled awake under her hands. Gravel spat under the tires as she took the back road up toward the ridge, windows down, wind knifing through
