When morning came, the keep was still cloaked in silence. The air smelled of frost and iron, and the world beyond the battlements lay veiled in a slow-moving fog that blurred the mountains into ghostly shapes. Damian stood at the window, watching the mist shift and breathe, as though the land itself were alive and dreaming.
Behind him, Lyra slept. Or rather—drifted. Her body lay still, her breathing shallow, but the faint light pulsing beneath her skin hadn't faded through the night. It moved like a rhythm, as if something ancient had found its way into her veins and was marking time within her.
Damian turned, eyes dark with sleepless thought. He had seen this once before—years ago, the same glow blooming beneath Aria's skin when she touched the Veil. Back then, it had been a sign of awakening. Of the chosen being claimed.
Now, it felt like an echo reborn.
