The Serpent's Lair
The world after the explosion was a dizzying kaleidoscope of pain and disorientation. Lyra tasted blood, her own, and the metallic tang of the virus clung to her throat, a sickening counterpoint to the coppery scent of the hybrids surrounding her. Strong hands, cold and clinical, clamped onto her, forcing her upright. Her pureblood strength, usually an iron core, felt like brittle glass, shattered by the virus's insidious tendrils. Her wolf form was a distant, whimpering echo in the back of her mind, refusing to answer the call.
"She's weakened, Architect, but her vital signs are still remarkably robust," Dr. Aris's voice floated above her, detached and analytical. "A true marvel of pureblood physiology, even under Cerberus's influence."
Lyra tried to snarl, to fight,
