The silence of the Stonehold stronghold was a physical pressure, a weight of judgment and finality. The massive, rune-carved door of the Cradle of Stone sealed behind Lyra with a deep, resonant thud that felt less like a sound and more like the closing of a tomb. Ren stood frozen, his hand half-outstretched, the image of her marked palm and resolute face burned onto the back of his eyelids.
She was gone. Swallowed by the mountain. By duty. By a fate that was rapidly spiraling beyond his control, beyond even the scope of the Beast Sovereign’s legacy.
A low, wounded sound escaped him, something between a growl and a gasp. He recoiled from the door as if it were white-hot, taking several stumbling steps back on the rocky path. The world tilted. The deep, stoic hum of the Stonehold beastline
