Lyra did not sleep.
She lay on the narrow cot in the inner chamber, eyes open, listening to the compound breathe around her. Footsteps passed outside at irregular intervals. Too careful. Too alert. Ronan had changed the rhythm again.
He always did after she embarrassed him.
The name on the page haunted her more than any shouted threat.
Tyler.
Ronan hadn’t sent the order yet. That was intentional. A threat withheld was sharper than one delivered. It forced imagination to do the damage first.
Lyra pushed herself upright and pressed her feet to the cold stone floor. The chill grounded her. She needed that.
Think.
Ronan wanted Tyler isolated beyond public reach. Somewhere, she couldn’t interrupt with words or witnesses. Somewhere, violence could be framed as a necessity.
Outer routes.
