The wind whispered softly through the trees as Lyra sat curled beneath the low-hanging branches, trying to steady her breath. Her body trembled—not from the cold, but from the sharp sting of Kyson’s words, the way his voice had thundered in the clearing, how her heart had cracked at his command.
Footsteps approached, firm but not hurried. She didn’t move. She knew that scent—clean, crisp cedar with something darker beneath. Xander.
“Lyra?” he called gently, crouching a few steps away.
She didn’t answer, but her shoulders gave her away. He stepped closer and crouched, his sharp eyes scanning her face.
“What happened?” His voice was low, not demanding—just a quiet offer.
Lyra turned her head slightly, her eyes red and lashes wet. “Why are you here?”
“You ran out of the field,” he said.
