The air in the Shaman's lodge was thick with the scent of drying herbs and old earth. It was a small, circular space, the walls lined with hanging bundles of sage, ghost-leaf, and star-thistle. In the center, a shallow fire pit held not flames, but a mound of glowing crystals that pulsed with a soft, rhythmic light, mirroring the distant Starcore. The old Shaman gestured for Lyra to sit on a worn hide opposite her.
Lyra complied, her nerves a tight knot in her stomach. The woman’s blind eyes seemed to see straight through her, down to the newly awakened spark within.
"You quieted the storm in him," the Shaman began without preamble, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves. "A thing the combined might of the old clans could not do. Do you know how?"
Lyra shook her head, then remembered
