The days after Lyra’s nightmare shift like ash in the wind—soft, slow, and smoldering with something unseen.
Kyson doesn’t say much about it, but his behavior changes. Not drastically. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Lyra does.
He no longer jerks away when they pass in the hallway. He doesn’t flinch at the smell of her like he used to, as though the bond was something to be scorched off. Instead, he brushes by her with a measured calm—sometimes even lingering.
And when they train, he’s gentler.
Still precise. Still demanding.
But when she falls too hard or grips her side from the lingering ache of her transformation, he’s there. Quiet. Grounded. A hand at her elbow to steady her. A look—not soft, but no longer cruel.
“You’re holding too much tension in your shoulders,” he
