The spiral staircase became a trap. Stone walls pressed close, offering nowhere to run as the herald's shadow poured upward like living smoke.
Caelen's blade flared with silver light as he swung, the arc slicing through the darkness. The herald's form split, then reformed behind him, whispering in a voice only Lyra seemed to hear:
"You can't escape what's written in your bones, little oracle."
"I'm not your oracle!" she spat, backing up the stairs.
The herald raised a hand, and black tendrils whipped toward her. Instinct—not thought—took over. Lyra threw up her own hand, and for the first time in years, she felt the heat of her gift surge through her veins.
Light burst from her palm—searing, golden, and sharp as glass. The tendrils recoiled, smoking where they'd touched it. The herald hissed, retreating a step.
Caelen seized the moment, lunging with a vicious thrust. His blade pierced the herald's chest, and for a heartbeat, Lyra thought they had won—
—until the figure dissolved into smoke entirely, swirling around them like a living storm.
"You can't kill what isn't alive," the herald's voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. "But I can take her."
The wind ripped at Lyra's clothes, pulling her forward. Caelen grabbed her arm, anchoring her, his knuckles white.
"Lyra!" His voice was raw with urgency. "Fight it—don't let him pull you through!"
She closed her eyes and forced her light to flare again, this time letting it pour from her entire body. Warmth surged outward, pushing against the shadows. The smoke thinned, then shredded apart like mist in the sun.
When the last trace of darkness vanished, the two of them stood panting in the empty stairwell.
But deep inside, Lyra felt it—like an invisible thread tugging at her heart.
The Binder now knew exactly where she was.