The silence after the battle was louder than the fight itself. In the Cradle of Stone, the only sounds were the heavy breathing of the warriors and the soft, sizzling dissolution of the last Unbound. The air, once thick with the shrieks of corrupted beasts, now held only the clean, cold scent of stone and the faint, silver resonance of the Moon Sigil.
Lyra lowered her hands, the light from her palm fading until the mark was once again a delicate, shimmering tattoo. She felt drained, hollowed out, as if she had sung a note so low and vast it had shaken the foundations of her own soul. But she also felt a new, unshakeable certainty. She had not fought. She had defined the rules of the fight, and in doing so, she had won.
Morwen stood before her, the stoic Chieftain of the Stonehold. For a
