The first rule Lyr taught her was simple.
Moonfire answers truth before will.
Aria learned that lesson the hard way.
They had taken shelter in the hollow of a fallen stone ridge where the forest thinned and the moonlight struck cleanly through the canopy. Lyr had cleared the area of traps and wards with practiced ease, his movements economical, almost reverent, as if he were working inside a temple rather than the wild.
“Sit,” he instructed, gesturing to a circle etched into the dirt with ash and bone powder. “And breathe.”
Aria obeyed reluctantly. Her body still felt like borrowed flesh—too tight, too aware, humming beneath her skin with power she did not trust. Every time she closed her eyes, she feared the fire would surge again, uncontrolled, destructive.
“I don’t want to burn an
