LYRA
I came back to myself sprawled on the cold floor of the council chamber, Zeviar’s arms wrapping around me like a lifeline. His voice was low, urgent, a steady anchor in the chaos swirling inside my head. “Breathe, Lyra. Just breathe. You’re here. You’re with me.”
My voice barely rose above a whisper, fragile and thin. “I’m okay. I’m okay, Zeviar.”
But he wasn’t convinced. “You weren’t here,” he said, the tight control he’d mastered in the dungeon now focused on holding his own hands steady, stopping them from trembling. “Your eyes, they went completely white. White, Lyra. For almost a whole minute.”
The word hit me strangely, lodged deep in my chest. “White?” I echoed, searching for meaning. “Sky?”
“I saw it too,” her voice cut through the silence, sharp and unfamiliar, not quite
