The defiance in Lyra’s heart was a fragile shield against the physical reality of the Pulse’s aftermath. Every step toward the Stonehold mountains was a fight against a current she could not see. The distorted call from the wounded beastline was a constant, grating pressure behind her eyes, a headache woven from the land’s own agony. She focused on the thin, steady thread leading back to Ren, using it as a navigational star in the sensory storm. He was moving, too. She could feel it, a determined, linear momentum that cut through the chaotic hum of the world. He was coming for her. The knowledge was both a comfort and a terror.
Anya and her warriors said nothing, but their vigilance had trebled. They moved now not just as escorts, but as a perimeter, their senses attuned to any threat mor
