The night was still, the kind of silence that felt alive with tension. Damon and I had settled into something resembling peace—a fragile truce between the past and the future. But even as I rested my head on his shoulder in the courtyard, something felt... off.
“You’re quiet,” Damon murmured, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of my hand.
“Just tired,” I lied.
The truth was, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that we’d missed something. Lyra’s retreat had seemed too easy, too convenient. For someone who thrived on chaos, she had left without so much as a parting shot. It didn’t feel like her.
As if summoned by my thoughts, a flicker of movement caught my eye. In the shadows near the edge of the courtyard, a figure stood watching us.
“Damon,” I said, sitting up straight.
