The great hall had emptied, but the heavy silence lingered like a shroud.
Stone columns loomed like sentinels above, and the once-roaring hearth had died to a hush of embers. The floor, still scorched from the earlier clash, was littered with broken weapons, torn banners, and dried blood in patterns like shattered sigils. The air hung thick with something old—something watching.
Only the elder fae remained near the center, kneeling beside Lira’s still form. Her long silver braid swept across the cracked floor as she bent forward, her delicate hands hovering inches above Lira’s body. She didn’t touch—not yet. Touch meant invitation, and whatever lay beneath Lira’s skin was no guest.
Her fingers moved in slow, spiraling patterns above the girl’s chest, tracing the dark lines that marred L
