The night air tasted sharp, like metal and pine needles crushed beneath boots. My lungs burned, raw and ragged, as if I'd sprinted a mile instead of just waking up from whatever the hell that awakening was. The clearing pressed in—a ring of shadows and breath. Lyra and Selvara hovered at the edge, voices low, still weaving the old chant. Ronan stayed close, a silent wall of iron at my back.
Pain jabbed me under the breastbone, a single spark that roared through my body in seconds. This wasn't the sting of a cut or the dull ache of bruises. This was ancient—something clawing up from the marrow, dragging me apart from the inside. I wanted to scream, but the sound locked in my throat and refused to budge.
Ronan crouched down, his jaw tight, watching me like someone counting down the final seconds on a fuse. No panic, no pity—he looked ready, almost impatient.
