The storm had not ended. It only shifted — crawling inward, seeping into her skin, her bones, her very pulse.
Lyra stood amid the ruins, wind tearing through her hair, ash clinging to her lashes. The voice still echoed in her chest, low and rough as the earth itself. Kael.
Her throat tightened. It couldn't be. She had seen him fall, felt the tremor of his power shattering against the sky. Yet the storm whispered his name, again and again, like a vow that refused to die.
She reached out — fingers trembling — and the air around her pulsed, silver veins of light spiraling toward her palm. The bond. Fragile. Faint. But alive.
"Kael," she breathed. The sound fractured against the wind.
From beyond the broken walls, a shadow stirred. Wolves. Dozens of them. Their eyes gleamed gold beneath the broken moon, their bodies tense, waiting. Not her pack. Not anymore. They moved with the eerie precision of something older, something summoned.
Lyra's pulse quickened. "Who sent you?"
