The silence after the blinding flare was deafening. Even the wolves had stopped their howls, crouching low with tails tucked between their legs. The fissure still pulsed with light, its edges glowing faintly, as if the earth itself was bleeding.
Lyra’s chest rose and fell too quickly, every breath shallow. Her storm hadn’t faded—it hummed under her skin like an untamed current, refusing to settle. Her eyes burned, and when she blinked, she swore she saw sparks flicker in her own vision.
The shadowed figure above the fissure hadn’t moved. Its smile was the kind that wasn’t really a smile at all, just the promise of cruelty wrapped in false sweetness.
“Stormborn,” it said again, the word stretching, vibrating against her bones. “You cannot serve two masters. Choose.”
Kael’s growl rumbled
