The forest was too quiet. Not the kind of silence that came with peace - but the kind that whispered of something ancient listening.
Lyra crouched near the charred remains of a campfire, her fingers brushing over the soot. "They were here," she murmured, eyes narrowing. The air thick with the metallic tang of old blood, masked poorly by the damp earth. "Hours ago, maybe less."
Dorian's shadow fell beside her. "Ebonfangs never linger," he said, his voice low and edged with a tension that made the night feel colder. "They move like smoke - leave only ruin behind."
Lyra glanced up at him, the faint silver of moonlight racing the hard lines of his face. He's been distant since Kellan's death, quieter - haunted. But now, beneath that restraint, something else flickered. Determination. Or ma
