The sky over the ruins of Oakhaven burned with the sickly violet hue of a dying star. Lyra knelt amidst the jagged rubble of the throne room, her fingers brushing against the cold, pulsing stone that housed the Jantung Void. She could feel its heartbeat against her palm, a rhythmic thrum that sounded like a funeral drum. Beside her, Malphas stood with his back to the horizon, his silhouette stark and lonely against the encroaching darkness. His eyes, once glowing with the fierce, predatory light of the high blood, were now dull and human.
Lyra, you need to step away from the core, Malphas said. His voice was raspy, stripped of the supernatural resonance that used to command the shadows.
I cannot, Lyra replied. She did not look at him. Her gaze was locked onto the swirling vortex of shado
