The clearing was too quiet.
Even with the wolves circling, their fur bristling, teeth glinting in the thin light of the moon, there was no sound but the wind pushing through the trees. Every growl had stilled the moment that voice broke through the night, deep and commanding, as though the forest itself bent to its will.
Lyra’s skin prickled. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the figure stepping out of the shadows, tall, cloaked, the glow of his silver eyes cutting through the dark like twin blades. He didn’t move like the others. He didn’t need to. Power clung to him like smoke, heavy and suffocating.
“Stormborn,” he said again, voice low, reverent, and sharp all at once. His gaze never left her. “The one who carries the Moon’s fire. At last.”
Kael shoved her behind him, body taut, claw
