Chapter Eight
Silence settled slowly.
Not the peaceful kind—this silence carried weight, thick and uneasy, pressing against Lyra’s chest as dust drifted through the air and the last tremors faded from the stone beneath their feet. The chamber felt altered, as if it were no longer just a place but a witness to what had happened.
Lyra stood at the center of it all, the blade heavy in her hand.
It no longer hummed. It no longer demanded.
It waited.
Cain was the first to move. He took a step closer, eyes never leaving the weapon, his posture tense, as if unsure whether to advance or draw back. For the first time since she’d met him, uncertainty flickered across his face.
“That thing,” he said slowly, “answered you.”
Lyra swallowed, flexing her fingers around the hilt. The metal was war
