The citadel no longer slept. Even in the dead of night, its halls glowed faintly with an unnatural light—silver threads of energy crawling along the stone like veins of living moonlight. Every whisper carried too far, every shadow lingered too long. The world itself seemed to breathe in uneasy rhythm, waiting.
Damian felt it in his bones—the hum, the same pulse that had followed them back from the Vale. It clung to him like frost, a ghost that would not leave. He stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, his armor half removed, his hand clenched around the rail until his knuckles whitened.
Below, the wolves stirred restlessly, pacing in slow circles. Their eyes shimmered faint gold, mirroring his unease.
Behind him, soft footsteps. Lyra's.
"You should rest," she said, voice hushed but steady.
He didn't turn. "So should you."
"I tried." Her tone wavered. "But every time I close my eyes, I see them."
At that, he turned. "See who?"
