“You brought more?” she rasped, her voice like dry leaves skittering across stone, though her tone was sharper than usual, laced with an almost frantic unease. Her gaze flickered to the empty space where she had last felt Lyra’s scent on the stolen fabric.
“No,” Theron said, his voice quiet, as he set a small, neatly bundled collection of healing herbs on the rough-hewn table. “No more samples, Mara. But I needed to speak with you. Something’s wrong. Terribly wrong. I saw her again, at Bloodfang.”
Mara’s thin, almost skeletal fingers curled tightly around the armrest of her crude wooden chair, her body tensing. “Lyra?” The name was a whispered prayer, a question heavy with dread and hope.
Theron nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yes, Lyra. There’s a profound gap in her memory. It’s not natu
