The air shimmered, warped by the pulse of magic still lingering from the Hollow's collapse. Lyria's boots sank into the half-burned soil as she stepped forward, the remnants of Kael's power crawling beneath her skin like ghostly embers. The pack moved silently behind her—shadows with eyes that gleamed silver in the dim light. None dared to speak. None dared to break the spell of her rage.
The forest around them was dying. Trees twisted inward, as if recoiling from something unseen. Black veins crept up their bark, feeding on the last fragments of moonlight that pierced through the canopy. And yet, in that decay, Lyria found strength. The Hollow had taken Kael—but it had also left her with something far more dangerous than grief.
Resolve.
She stopped at the edge of the ravine—the place where the world seemed to split between what was real and what wasn't. The wind moaned low, carrying whispers from the other side. His side.
