LYRA
Ravenwood felt like it was holding its breath.
That was the first thing I noticed stepping out of the car, the way the packhouse grounds looked quiet in the grey morning light. The kind of stillness that settles after something violent has passed through, and the place hasn’t quite decided how to heal.
The east wing told the rest of the story.
A chunk of the outer wall was damaged, stone blackened, two windows shattered. Scaffolding stood around it, fresh and thrown up in a hurry. Pack members moved through the grounds with sharp focus, like a community that had turned shock into action. Nobody was just standing around.
Zeviar took it all in, his face unreadable.
Orion stood beside him, jaw clenched tight.
I felt the warmth I’d carried from New York drain out of me, replaced by
