The heavy oak doors of the mountain sanctuary slammed shut against the biting alpine wind, sealing out the tempest roaring across the ridge.
The quiet inside the safehouse was instantaneous and suffocating. High wooden beams arched into shadows overhead, and the air smelled faintly of cured pine, cold stone, and decades of untouched solitude. Nestled deep within the jagged cliffs of the northern range, the sanctuary was a unmapped fortress—built by Damon’s father as a last-resort redoubt, equipped with independent power grids, iron-reinforced walls, and wards powerful enough to deflect high-altitude satellite tracking.
Damon didn't pause to turn on the main lights. Carrying Lyra in his arms as if she weighed nothing, he strode across the dark stone foyer toward the central living quart
