Weeks earlier…

  I fled that wretched temple like a soul escaping the grave. The air inside had been a drowning thing, thick and wet with deterioration, steeped in the scent of death left too long to fester. The stone walls wept with damp, the stench clinging like a second skin. The gremlins had loved it, nested in it, chittering in bliss. But to breathe it, was to choke on something ancient and wrong.

  We moved cautiously through the last stretch of corridor, boots squelching against grime, nerves still drawn tight. As the great temple doors creaked open, the world outside spilled in, cool air curling around us like a blessing. My eyes swept the courtyard first, trained for movement, but the chaos had passed. Render and his pack were already hauling off what was left of the gremlins, shrieking, squirming things, vanishing to whatever grim meal awaited them.

  Silence had slowly begun to settle over the temple grounds. No more clawing, no more chatter. Just stillness. Relieved, I stepped beyond the threshold, leaving behind the suffocating stench, the madness, the walls that had seemed to breathe with decay. The night sky opened, embracing me with its cool touch.

  I looked up, before me was a vast canopy of stars stretched overhead, cold and glittering. They felt impossibly distant, impossibly pure, and after the claustrophobic dark, it was like stepping into another world entirely. The moon hung heavy and luminous above us, casting silver across the courtyard, catching on dew-slick stone and broken columns like frost. Its light didn’t just illuminate, it cleansed, banished even the clinging shadows of that place, peeling them from our skin and souls alike.

  I drew in a breath so deep it almost hurt. The air was sharp, cold, alive—rich with pine and earth and the faint promise of something blooming in the underbrush. The temple’s stink didn’t vanish all at once, but it loosened its grip, replaced by something far older and kinder, the night, and its endless, star-flecked sky.

  I wasn’t the only one relieved to be free.

  Yalela stretched with a languid, catlike grace, her lithe form arching high, muscles rippling beneath her moonlit fur. The tension of captivity melted from her as she flexed her claws into the earth, finally grounded in her own strength once more. She turned to Lyra, padding closer before pressing her head firmly against her leg, a slow, deliberate gesture of gratitude.

  Lyra let out a small laugh, kneeling slightly to run a hand through the Lynx’s thick fur. “You are very welcome.” Her voice was warm, affectionate, a stark contrast to the violence that had filled the night.

  With a playful glint in her eyes, Lyra tilted her head. “Now, shall we get back to camp? I’m sure Corran will be happy to see you.” Yalela glanced up at her, ears twitching at the mention of Corran. Her lips curled, her Cheshire grin spread wide, sharp and knowing. The Coinlord had paid for what he had done. She was no one’s captive. Not anymore.

  As we trekked back to camp, the road curved through moonlit brush, shadows flickering beneath the trees as the forest murmured around us. Ahead, Alexander gestured like a bard mid-performance, his voice carrying on the breeze.

  “Now imagine,” he said, voice as smooth as melted butter, “Frostfin Trout—grilled to golden perfection. Fire-roasted root vegetables, blistered with just enough char. Wild rice infused with wild thyme, and—wait for it—honeyed fruit served warm, with a chilled glass of Silverleaf Ice Wine.”

  Rhys froze mid-step, her mouth already open. “Did you say honeyed fruit?”

  “I did.”

  Rhys gasped eyes widening, loud enough to startle a nearby bird. “Wait, wait, grilled trout?”

  Alexander nodded, already smiling.

  “Hot. Damn.” She slapped a hand to her stomach like it was a war drum. “I don’t even know what Silverleaf Ice Wine is but I’m ninety percent sure it’s my soulmate. Alexander, if your mess ‘in with me, if we get back to camp and it’s just hardtack and regret this time, I’m flipping a log. Maybe two.”

  “I assure you, my dear barbarian connoisseur, it is real,” he said, eyes sparkling. “And you’ll weep with joy.”

  She clutched his arm, wide-eyed. “I love weeping with joy. Especially while eating!”

  Behind them, a different conversation simmered—one with fewer food-based emotions, but just as much fire.

  “I’m just saying,” Mylena said, “you can’t charge blindly into a field and assume your sword will solve the problem before you know what the problem is.”

  Emre’s brow quirked. “And I’m saying most problems can be solved if you hit them fast and hard enough.”

  Mylena exhaled slowly, like she was counting to ten. “Speed isn’t the same as strategy.”

  “And praying isn’t the same as planning.”

  That earned a sharp look from Mylena. “It’s not about praying. It’s about discernment. I was trained to assess a battlefield. You don’t just look at the enemy. You look at terrain, choke points, magical interference—”

  “I do look,” Emre said, calm but firm. “Just… after. Maybe you talk things through. I move. We’ll see which keeps us alive longer.”

  It wasn’t angry, not yet. More like two weapons being unsheathed for the first time—testing the weight, the balance. Their voices clashed and cut, but neither seemed to want to win, only to understand.

  I stayed just behind, letting their words drift ahead like sparks from a fire.

  Lyra moved beside me in silence, her steps feather-light despite the weariness that clung to her. Her eyes, usually sharp and full of light, were distant, tonight, clouded, dulled by the weight of the day. The corner of her mouth twitched now and then, as if trying to remember how to smile. She looked as though she might fall asleep the moment we paused. I glanced her way. She didn’t look over—but after a moment, she smiled anyway. Small. Worn.

  "I'm sure all that talk of food has you feeling rather... hungry," she teased me, her smile lingering.

  "Famished, darling," I responded with a grin. "However, tonight I plan on hunting for my food." As her smile began to wane, I raised a hand to forestall any objections. "While you are quite the delectable feast, today has clearly taken its toll on you. Besides, if you plan to indulge one of my lessons, you'll need a good night’s rest to keep up with me." I winked at her.

  "Will I now?" she responded coyly, her eyebrows lifting in playful challenge. "You'd better find a rather large beast tonight if you plan to keep up with me."

  Her words sparked laughter between us, our flirtatious teasing matching beat for beat. We continued our walk in contented silence, savoring the cool night air. I could tell she was, like me, thinking ahead to the promise of a memorable evening—after all, I had guaranteed her a night she would never forget.

  As we neared the camp, Yalela bolted ahead, her sleek form weaving between tents as she searched for Corran. The urgency in her stride was unmistakable—until she caught herself. She skidded to a halt in the center of the camp, lifting her head with forced indifference, her ears twitching despite her best efforts to feign disinterest.

  A rustling to her left made them perk before she could stop them. She turned just as Corran emerged from Alexander’s tent, his sharp eyes already locked onto her. A grin spread across his face as he strode toward her.

  “Oh! My darling girl—” He barely got the words out before Yalela huffed and turned her nose up, shifting her body away with exaggerated grace.

  “Hmph.”

  Corran’s grin widened. He knew this game.

  “Come now, don’t be cross with me,” he coaxed, his voice warm with amusement. “After all, it was you who decided to nap in the garden.”

  Yalela slowly turned her head, her piercing blue eyes narrowing as they met his. A flicker of mirth danced within them, but she held her ground, playing her part. As Corran took another step forward, she let out a sharp hiss, making him halt mid-step.

  “All right, all right,” he chuckled, hands raised in surrender. “But” he added, raising a brow, “I did find you a rescue party.”

  Yalela sniffed, unimpressed, and let out a small growl.

  “It didn’t take that long,” he teased. “Are you truly going to stay mad at me?”

  She tilted her head, pretending to weigh the question, her gaze drifting toward the sky as though tallying the precise amount of time he should suffer for his offense. With a heavy sigh, she looked back at him—and a slow, knowing smile curled at the edges of her muzzle.

  Corran recognized that look a second too late.

  With a blur of silver blue fur, Yalela sprang. He barely had time to throw his arms up before she crashed into him, knocking him clean off his feet. He landed hard, breath huffing out in laughter as Yalela perched triumphantly on his chest. She licked a paw, smoothing it over her head, entirely pleased with herself.

  Corran let out a hearty chuckle and looked up at the rest of us. “Thank you, my dear friends. I suspect I’ve been forgiven… for now.”

  Yalela let out a soft chuff before leaping gracefully off him, padding toward Alexander’s tent with purpose. She poked her head inside, and a moment later, she reemerged—dragging a thick, well-worn blanket between her teeth. She carried it near the fire, dropping it onto the ground before kneading it with her paws. Once satisfied, she curled into a tight ball, sighing contentedly as she closed her eyes.

  Alexander crossed his arms and muttered, “By all means.”

  "Rest up," Corran said as he pushed himself up from the ground, casting a brief smile at Yalela. "We’ll need to gather Nightroot tonight."

  The Lynx didn’t stir, her eyes remaining closed, but she let out a soft sigh of understanding.

  Corran turned to Lyra, his expression firm but reassuring. "That goes for you as well, all of you actually. Rest, enjoy a hot meal, and take what quiet you can from this evening. Yalela and I will gather the ingredients needed. At dawn, I’ll begin the brewing process, and by midnight, when the moon is at its peak, you will drink the tea and slow the venom."

  "I will go with you." Emre’s voice cut through the camp, sharp and decisive.

  Corran barely had time to react before the others turned toward her. She exhaled sharply, throwing up her hands in irritation.

  "If you think for even a moment that I would let the only ones capable of stopping this venom out of my sight until the tea is brewed, then you are all fools." Her gaze flicked to Yalela. "The Lynx has already been captured once." There was no softness in her tone, no room for argument—only cold, ruthless logic.

  Corran studied Emre for a moment before nodding. "As you wish. It will be good to have protection."

  Emre didn’t respond. The decision had already been made, and her mind had moved to the next step. She was calculating the path, the risks, the possibilities of ambush—assessing every weakness, every unknown variable. The mission was not about trust or reassurance. It was about control, about ensuring the plan succeeded without failure, without another mistake. Emre folded her arms and sat by the fire, silent, already three moves ahead.

  It was Rhys who finally shattered the silence, her voice cutting through the night like a blade of pure, unfiltered hunger.

  “Sooo… Alexander, about dinner.” She grinned, rubbing her hands together like a scheming merchant about to close the deal of a lifetime.

  Alexander, well accustomed to Rhys’ one-track mind when it came to food, chuckled. “My lady, it would be my pleasure.”

  He turned toward his tent but threw a glance over his shoulder. “Kieran, be a good lad and fetch the Silverleaf Ice Wine. Pour our friends a proper glass.”

  I smirked, already moving my feet. “That’s the first good idea you’ve had all day.”

  Following Alexander, I grabbed several bottles from his tent with one arm while juggling a handful of glasses in the other. Returning to the fire, I made my way around, filling each cup to the brim with the shimmering, pale blue wine. Whatever else could be said about the man, Alexander had damn fine taste when it came to spirits.

  As I reached Lyra, I tilted the bottle over her glass. She watched as the wine cascaded gently, flowing in a slow, delicate stream, its pale, frosted hue shimmering like liquid moonstone. The glass frosted instantly at its touch, delicate tendrils of ice creeping upward, blossoming into fragile, crystalline snowflakes that lingered gracefully along the rim.

  “I’ve never had an Ice Wine before,” she murmured, curiosity dancing in her eyes.

  I grinned, tilting my head toward her. “Darling, you are in for a treat.”

  I let my voice drop, savoring the moment as much as the drink itself. “This shimmering, pale blue wine is brewed from Silverleaf grapes, a rare variety that thrives in frostbitten groves, lending a crisp, almost fragile coolness to the drink. Infused with wild juniper, ice-mint, and a hint of elderflower, each sip carries an invigorating blend of herbal brightness and a touch of winter’s breath” I finished the last words with a flourish, letting my fingers graze the back of her hand as I set the bottle down.

  Lyra chuckled, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Why, Kieran, who knew you were such a connoisseur?”

  I leaned in just a fraction, enough to catch the flicker of amusement in her swirling silver-green eyes. “A connoisseur, yes—but only when it comes to things worth savoring.” My fingers trailed along the curve of her cheek, slow, deliberate, before I poured my own glass.

  Her breath hitched—just slightly—but she recovered quickly, biting her lip before lifting her glass to take a small sip.

  I settled beside her, our shoulders brushing as we nursed our wine in comfortable silence. Across the fire, Alexander worked with practiced efficiency, pulling ingredients and setting them in place while Rhys hovered like a particularly impatient vulture.

  “Are you actually helping or just taste-testing?” I called out, watching as she swiped a roasted ember pepper straight from the pan and popped it into her mouth.

  Rhys groaned around the bite, fanning her mouth. “Gods above, it’s hot—” She grabbed her wine and downed half the glass in one go. “—but so damn good.”

  Alexander sighed. “Rhys, for once, could you—”

  “Nope,” she interrupted, already reaching for another. “Cook faster.”

  I chuckled into my wine, shaking my head. "She really does think with her stomach."

  Lyra leaned in, smirking. “And you don’t?”

  I glanced at her, my gaze dropping just briefly to the curve of her lips before meeting her eyes again. “Oh, I do.” I took a slow sip. “But I have an appetite for more than just food.”

  Lyra arched a brow but said nothing, only sipping her wine as the firelight flickered between us and we watched Alexander work his culinary magic. The scent of woodsmoke curled through the crisp evening air as Alexander crouched beside the fire, sleeves pushed up, hands steady and precise. The Frostfin Trout, its silver-blue scales shimmering in the flickering light, lay atop a cedar plank, ready for the flame. His fingers worked methodically, sprinkling a light dusting of coarse sea salt over the delicate flesh, followed by the finely chopped wild citrus zest and mountain thyme. The herbs clung to the fish’s surface, their sharp, clean scent mingling with the smoke curling from the embers below.

  Behind him, Rhys loomed, arms crossed, her head tilted skeptically. “Y’know, I could just chuck it straight in and be done with it.”

  Alexander exhaled, slow and patient. “Yes, if you’d like to ruin it entirely.” He picked up a thin brush, dipped it in a small bowl of oil infused with ice-mint, and painted it lightly across the fish. “Here. You try.”

  Rhys stepped forward, taking the brush in her molten fingers. She dabbed it on the trout, heavy-handed at first, then eased back as Alexander arched a brow. “There you go. Even strokes.”

  She snorted. “Didn’t know fish needed coddlin’.”

  “Only if you want it to be edible.” He turned to the fire, checking the iron grill that had been warming over the embers. The heat was just right—steady, glowing, not too fierce. He gestured for Rhys to place the trout down, skin-side first.

  The moment it touched the heat, the skin crackled, the oils searing into the flesh with a satisfying sizzle. A delicate wisp of fragrant steam lifted into the air, the scent of citrus and thyme blooming into the night.

  While the fish grilled, Alexander moved on to the fire-roasted vegetables, carefully turning thick slices of emberroot squash that had been roasting in a pan. Their golden-orange flesh had softened just enough, caramelizing at the edges, while forest mushrooms glistened with the rich sheen of herbed butter. The earthy aroma mixed with the smoky char of red-gold ember peppers, their skins blistering to perfection.

  “Stir this,” Alexander instructed, nudging a pan of wild rice toward Rhys.

  She took the wooden spoon and gave it a firm swirl. The grains—deep mahogany and soft golden pearls—glistened in the low light, soaking up the flavors of sage, wild garlic, and a trace of crushed lavender. The air thickened with its aroma, warm and herbal, grounding the sharper scents of the roasting vegetables.

  “Smells bloody good,” Rhys admitted, peering into the pan.

  “Try not to eat it straight from the pot,” Alexander mused, tossing a handful of toasted pine nuts and dried sweetberries into the mix. He drizzled a final swirl of spiced butter over the rice, letting the flavors meld.

  With the trout nearly done, he used a thin blade to lift the fillet slightly, peering underneath. The skin had crisped to a perfect golden brown, a contrast to the delicate, pale flesh beneath. He flipped it carefully, the scent of frost-kissed waters releasing in waves as the oils seeped into the grill.

  As Rhys plated the rice and vegetables, Alexander moved to the final course, the honeyed fruit. He took his time slicing wintermoon pears, their pale flesh gleaming like starlight. The deep crimson frostberries tumbled into a bowl, their tartness tempered by a slow drizzle of golden meadow honey, thick and fragrant with wildflower and clover. Sun-ripened peaches, their juices heavy with nectar, were fanned out in delicate layers, while thin curls of candied citrus peel added the final, elegant touch.

  Rhys swiped a slice of pear before he could protest. “Hells, that’s good.”

  Alexander shot her a warning glance, but the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

  With everything plated, he took a step back, surveying their work. The trout, charred yet tender, rested alongside the vibrant spread of roasted vegetables. The wild rice, rich with herbs and subtle crunch, steamed gently from its bowl, and the dessert glowed like scattered jewels beneath the firelight.

  Rhys huffed and crossed her arms. “Fine. I’ll admit it. You might actually know what you’re doing.”

  Alexander smirked, setting the final plate down. “You say that as if there was ever a doubt.”

  She grinned, cracking her knuckles. “Now let’s eat I can already hear the seconds calling my name”

  Alexander exhaled, shaking his head. “Charming as ever.” But he handed her a plate first, before the rest of us could descend upon their work like starving wolves.

  The fire crackled, the scent of woodsmoke and seared citrus curled through the camp, and for a brief moment, the night belonged only to the quiet triumph of a well-cooked meal. Each bite was a slow indulgence, the warmth of the meal spreading through me like a quiet lull after a long, relentless day. The grilled Frostfin Trout flaked perfectly beneath my fork, the hint of citrus and mountain thyme lingering on my tongue. The wild rice, fragrant with woodland herbs, melted into the smokiness of the fire-roasted vegetables, the perfect contrast of crisp and tender. Each sip of Silverleaf Ice Wine was a cool cascade of frost-kissed sweetness, the herbal brightness dancing in waves across my tongue. With every bite, every swallow, the tension in my muscles unwound, the day’s weight slowly dissipating into the comfort of good food and fine drink.

  Noticing my glass was empty, I reached for the bottle beside me, pouring another generous serving. The wine shimmered pale blue in the firelight, catching the flicker of embers as I turned to Lyra, instinctively offering to refill hers. But the words caught in my throat.

  She was pale—too pale.

  Her skin, usually kissed by the soft glow of the fire, now carried an unnatural pallor, the fine sheen of sweat on her brow glistening under the dim light. She wasn’t eating—barely touching her food, idly shifting it around her plate with the tip of her fork, something unnervingly absent in her movements. Lyra always appreciated a good meal, but now… her eyes, once bright with mischief and sharp observation, looked dim, heavy with exhaustion.

  I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a murmur. “Darling… you’ve hardly touched your meal.”

  She blinked slowly, as if it took effort to drag herself from wherever her mind had drifted. “Hmm? Oh…” She glanced down at her plate as though realizing its existence for the first time. “I… I’m just so tired.”

  She tried to smile, but even that small effort seemed to drain her. It barely reached her eyes before slipping away, leaving her face drawn and weary.

  “I think I just need to lay down,” she added, her voice quieter now. “Today was quite the adventure.”

  I studied her, my concern deepening. This was more than exhaustion. It was something creeping beneath the surface, something she wasn’t saying. Lyra was many things—clever, quick, infuriatingly stubborn—but weak? Never. And yet, here she was, barely able to hold up a smile.

  Her eyes met mine, and in them, I saw a silent plea. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t press. Let me have this moment of peace.

  I exhaled, unwilling but relenting. “Very well, darling… if you are sure rest is all you need.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be okay after a good night’s sleep,” she swore, though there was something brittle in the way she said it, like glass thin enough to shatter. Then, after a pause, softer, “…I promise.”

  She handed her untouched plate to Rhys, who accepted it with enthusiasm. Lyra murmured her good nights, throwing me a final glance, her smile just barely lingering before she disappeared into her tent.

  I stared after her, unease pressing against my ribs. Something wasn’t right.

  But if she wanted me to let it go, for now, I would.

  Pushing aside the creeping worry, I grabbed a bottle of wine and headed to my own tent, tucking it away for later. When I reemerged, the camp had begun to settle—Alexander and Rhys clearing away the remnants of dinner, Mylena retreating with a bottle of wine tucked under her arm, and Corran, Emre, and Yalela disappearing into the forest to begin their search for Nightroot.

  I weighed my options, then decided I didn’t want to cross paths with them on my hunt. Turning, I slipped into the trees in the opposite direction, but even as the night swallowed me, my thoughts lingered on Lyra’s pale face and the unspoken worry behind her tired promise.

  The forest stretched out before me, dark and vast, yet my focus remained elsewhere. I should have been locked into the rhythm of the hunt—listening for movement, watching for the telltale shift of shadow against moonlight—but my mind refused to quiet.

  Lyra.

  Even now, away from the fire and the others, her pale face lingered at the edge of my thoughts. The dimness in her usually sharp eyes. The forced, fragile smile. The way she barely touched her food, moving it absently across her plate as if she wasn’t even aware of it.

  Something was wrong.

  I could feel it, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts, winding tight in my chest. But why?

  Why did it bother me so much?

  I needed her strength, I told myself. That was all. She was clever, resourceful, vital to everything we were doing, and tonight, she had looked... drained of it. Anyone would be concerned. I would be a fool not to be.

  And yet...

  The feeling in my stomach wasn’t just concern. It was something deeper, something unsettling. A kind of fear I didn’t know how to name, and I hated that.

  I exhaled sharply, shaking my head as if I could force the thoughts away. Foolishness. She would be fine after rest. This was nothing.

  Refocusing, I pushed forward, my steps careful and measured, eyes scanning the undergrowth. A rustle to my left—small, skittering. A hare, maybe. Easy prey.

  I dropped low, breath steadying as instinct took over. The familiar thrill of the hunt pulsed through me, chasing away thoughts I had no patience for. One chance—swift, clean.

  The hare darted from the bramble, and I struck.

  My fangs found its mark, the creature collapsing into stillness before it had time to process its fate. I exhaled slowly, wiping my mouth clean as I savored the small kill. Finally. Something simple. Something that made sense.

  By the time I returned to camp, the fire had burned lower, its embers glowing beneath the remnants of the night’s meal. The others had settled or disappeared to their own tasks. I moved toward my tent, absently reaching for the bottle of Silverleaf Ice Wine I had stashed earlier, the promise of it a welcome distraction.

  But as I stepped inside, my gaze flickered toward Lyra’s tent, and that same unease curled back into my chest.

  I hesitated, just for a breath, then exhaled sharply and forced myself inside my own tent. She’s fine. She just needs rest.

  I told myself that again and again, even as I lay awake, the bottle untouched beside me, staring at the canvas above, unable to shake the feeling that I was lying. The weight of worry for Lyra clung to me, gnawing at the edges of my mind, but exhaustion was stronger. My body betrayed me, dragging me under. Sleep did not offer rest—it never did. It only pulled me back into the past, into the nightmare that had carved itself into my bones.

  Time twisted, minutes stretching into hours, hours into an eternity. A cold sweat gathered at the back of my neck. I turned onto my side, staring at the tent flaps, waiting—desperate—for the first break of dawn. If the sun rose, maybe I would wake. Maybe I could escape before he found me again.

  A familiar paranoia slithered in, whispering in my ear. My eyes grew heavy, my body leaden, yet the darkness welcomed me with open arms. I knew what was coming. I always knew.

  The chill struck deep.

  He was here.

  The world around me changed in an instant. My tent was gone, swallowed by shadows, and in its place stood the cold stone walls of Killian’s stronghold. The air reeked of blood and damp, thick with the metallic tang of iron. Chains rattled. My chest tightened.

  I had been gone too long.

  Killian's wrath was a storm, slow at first—measured, deliberate. A silence stretched too long, the kind that made my pulse pound in my throat. His voice was smooth and polished, yet sharp enough to cut.

  “You seem to have forgotten your place, Kieran.”

  A hand twisted in my hair, yanking me forward. Pain flared across my scalp, sharp and immediate, but it was nothing compared to what was coming. I barely had time to brace before the first blow landed—a backhand across my face, the crack of knuckles against skin echoing in the chamber. My head snapped to the side, the coppery taste of blood flooding my tongue.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Then came the second.

  The third.

  I lost count.

  Pain blurred into something else, something slower, heavier, more relentless. Time stretched thin, each second dragging into minutes, each minute sinking endlessly into the hollow hours before dawn. Helplessness became a living thing, coiling tighter around me with every heartbeat. I was nothing to him, a tool to be broken, reshaped, and discarded at his whim.

  My absence had been a transgression, and he intended to carve the lesson deep into my bones. I pleaded silently to wake, but the nightmare clung to me, unyielding, pulling me deeper into its endless darkness as the first pale hints of dawn mocked me from the unreachable horizon.

  Lost in the brutality of an unyielding master, I barely registered that the blows had ceased. With aching effort, I raised my head to see Killian looming before me, his tall frame rigid and imposing. Shadows pooled in the sharp angles of his face, accentuating eyes that held nothing but cold contempt. His lips twisted faintly, a sneer of disgust marring his otherwise indifferent mask, as he regarded me like something pathetic, broken, and unworthy of his attention.

  "Pity," Killian hissed into my ear, his voice slick with mockery. "The dawn is upon us, and I was only just getting started."

  I gasped awake, my body jerking as if I had been struck. My chest heaved, lungs clawing for air, my skin damp with cold sweat. The ghost of Killian’s grip lingered on my flesh, phantom pain curling along my ribs. I swallowed against the nausea rising in my throat, pressing my arm over my eyes as I lay in the oppressive quiet of my tent.

  The nightmare had returned, reaching out from the shadows, eager to reclaim me.

  Since Corran arrived… the nightmare had been at bay.

  The venom—

  Realization struck like a blade to the gut.

  “The venom. Lyra.”

  I shot upright, the remnants of sleep vanishing in an instant. My body moved before my mind caught up, my feet barely touching the ground as I burst from my tent. My eyes swept over the camp in frantic search—Alexander and Rhys, sitting by the fire, breakfast in hand. Mylena, returning from the river, her hair still damp.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but movement at the camp’s edge stole my words. Corran, Emre, and Yalela were returning, Cinnamis and her Captain of the Guard Sirthios in tow.

  “Hello again, my little sweetlings,” Cinnamis cooed as she neared the fire, her eyes flitting over each of us with playful amusement. “Oh, but we are missing one.” She smiled, saccharine and knowing. “Where is our beauty filled with chaos?”

  The world around me slowed. I barely registered the glances exchanged between my companions, the shared confusion, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

  No one had seen Lyra.

  The ground was moving beneath me before I could think. My heart pounded against my ribs, blood roaring in my ears as I sprinted to her tent.

  I wrenched the flaps open, the fabric tearing from my grip. She was there. Unmoving. Deathly still. The breath fled from my lungs. I dropped to my knees, hands shaking as I reached for her. Her skin was cold beneath my fingers as I pulled her into my arms, her weight slack against me. I pressed my ear to her lips, desperate, praying. I let out a small sigh of relief, her breath was shallow, but there. The gods had not taken her yet.

  I shook her. “Darling, I need you to wake up.” My voice trembled, but Lyra didn’t stir. She remained frozen, trapped in whatever cruel nightmare had ensnared her.

  My arms tightened around her as if I could will her back to me, just as I had in the nest. “Wake up, damn it!” My voice cracked with desperation, but silence swallowed my plea.

  She didn’t move.

  My breath came ragged as I brushed the black satin curls from her face, searching for any flicker of life in her closed eyes. The world outside the tent faded—there was only Lyra, only the deafening sound of my own pulse hammering in my ears.

  Footsteps. Movement at my side as Corran appeared.

  He knelt beside me, his face grim, with Cinnamis slinking in just behind him. He placed a hand to Lyra’s forehead, closing his eyes. Silver light radiated from his palm, pulsing gently against her skin.

  Then, a sharp inhale. A flicker of shock in his expression. Dread twisted in my gut.

  “She is still with us," Corran murmured, opening his eyes. "But she is fighting desperately in her nightmares. The venom has its claws deep in her.”

  His words sent a fresh wave of panic through me, but I swallowed it down. I clenched my jaw so tightly I felt the strain in my temples. “Fix her,” I growled through gritted teeth. “Bring her back.”

  Corran held my gaze. “She’s too deep into the venom’s grip for me to pull her free.” A pause, then softer, more solemn— “The tea is her salvation now.”

  The tea. I wanted to curse at him, to demand that he do something more. That he try harder. But if he said she was beyond his reach, then she truly was.

  He turned to Cinnamis. “Stay with her. Meditate into her dreams as I’ve taught you. Give her strength to fight while I prepare the Nightbloom Tea.”

  Cinnamis nodded, her expression unreadable as Corran hurried from the tent.

  I looked down at Lyra, still nestled against me, still unmoving. I willed her to fight—to hear me, to come back. A soft touch against my cheek startled me.

  “You have to let her go, my little sweetling,” Cinnamis murmured, her voice like silk wrapping around a hidden thorn.

  I stiffened. “I will not leave her.”

  Her lips curved, the faintest trace of amusement in her knowing gaze. “She knows you are here. But for me to help her, you must let go. Stay if you like—but outside you go, if I am to do what must be done.”

  I hated her. In that moment, I hated needing her. But I hated Lyra’s silence even more.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I loosened my grip. She slipped from my arms as I forced myself to stand, every muscle in my body screaming against the separation. I moved to the entrance of the tent, my steps heavy, my mind heavier.

  “I will be right here.” My voice was hoarse as I pointed to a spot by the nearest tree. I sank down, my back pressing against the rough bark, arms crossed tightly over my chest like they could still hold her that way.

  Cinnamis’ gaze followed me, her expression ever unreadable. “The tea will not be ready until midnight,” she mused, her tone light despite the gravity of her words. “Make yourself comfortable—it will be a long day for my little sweetlings.”

  My eyes widened. Midnight? She would be like this until then? The urge to argue clawed at my throat, but I forced it down. I couldn’t afford to distract her. I swallowed hard and leaned back, forcing myself into stillness. A quiet presence settled beside me.

  It was Yalela.

  She sat without a word, her gaze fixed on Lyra and Cinnamis as the dryad prepared to enter Lyra’s dreams. Then, without hesitation, she nudged her head against my shoulder before shifting to rest in my lap.

  I tensed. For a moment, I kept my arms stubbornly crossed. Then, slowly—so painfully slowly—I let myself breathe.

  The warmth of her silent comfort seeped into me, like a steady flame against the chill in my bones. Like a warm drink on a winter’s night, thawing something frozen deep inside.

  I didn’t move.

  But I didn’t pull away, either.

  The morning dragged on, unbearably slow, each moment swollen with the heaviness of waiting. There was nothing but silence, nothing to shield me from the relentless, creeping helplessness that wormed its way through my thoughts. All I could do was sit, wait, and let the quiet torment me, trapped in my own restless mind.

  I watched as Alexander moved with quiet purpose, hauling the last of the firewood into the camp and stacking it neatly near the fire. Each log was placed with careful precision, a task that didn’t need such attention but gave him something to focus on, something tangible to control. When he was finished, he stood for a moment, staring at the stacked wood as though willing it to hold some greater meaning before stepping back with a quiet sigh.

  Rhys and Mylena disappeared into the woods shortly after, muttering something about gathering more firewood, though they knew the pile Alexander had made would last the night. It wasn’t about the wood. It was about keeping their hands busy, their minds from wandering to the tent where Lyra lay unmoving, trapped in whatever nightmare held her in its grasp.

  I turned my attention back to Corran. The druid moved fluidly, hands steady and precise as he etched an intricate circle of runes around the firepit. Each symbol emerged in brilliant shades of sapphire and violet, like luminous constellations set into the earth itself. Tiny, crystalline shards drifted gently around the forming circle, glinting and twinkling softly as if plucked from the night sky.

  At the heart of the circle, Corran carefully traced a second ring, inscribing unfamiliar, arcane symbols—delicate runes that shimmered and shifted, alive with ethereal grace. Each mark was filled meticulously with a silvery powder, catching the late-morning sun and casting reflections like captured starlight dancing upon water. As he worked, the air thickened, charged and expectant.

  With the completion of the final rune, the circle ignited in a ripple of glowing energy—vivid, celestial blues merging seamlessly with deep, mysterious purples. A gentle pulse radiated outward, bathing Corran in the subtle illumination of ancient, natural magic, simultaneously captivating and deeply foreboding.

  At the center of the northern rune, within a crescent moon shape, Corran placed a small, delicate wooden box. The box was unassuming—worn, its hinges darkened with age—but I knew its contents were anything but ordinary. Even before it could be opened, the faintest hum of power radiated from within, barely perceptible but undeniably present as the Nightroot waited inside.

  Corran sat back on his heels, exhaling through his nose before casting a critical eye over the rest of his preparations. Before him, laid out with precise care, were the ingredients he had gathered for the ritual. Sprigs of silverthistle, a vial of stardust-infused dew, dried valerian curls, and a scattering of crushed star anise—all chosen for their properties, each one essential to guiding the magic of the tea.

  He reached for the first ingredient, rolling a few dried leaves between his fingers before murmuring soft incantations over them. The fire crackled beside him, low and steady, its flickering warmth barely reaching beyond the circle of runes. The air had begun to shift, thickening with something unspoken, something waiting.

  The ritual had begun. And all I could do now was wait.

  I sat a short distance away, arms tightly crossed over my chest, watching as Corran worked slowly with deliberate, methodical care. The Druid had been at it for hours, moving with a quiet reverence as he added each ingredient meticulously from the worn wooden tray beside him. Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting shifting patterns across Corran’s hands as he continued to grind dried herbs between his fingers, releasing their sharp, earthy aroma into the warm air.

  The kettle rested on an iron hook over the fire, its copper surface catching glints of gold and red as the flames licked its base. A faint mist already curled from the spout, swirling in lazy tendrils before dissolving into nothing. Corran muttered under his breath as he reached for a small vial of shimmering liquid. It was something I couldn’t name, though I’d long stopped trying to keep up with Corran’s collection of herbs and magical plants being consumed by the bubbling liquid inside the kettle.

  Instead, my gaze flicked toward the tent where Lyra lay. Cinnamis was still sitting quietly beside Lyra as she lay locked inside a world of shadows she couldn’t wake from. She hadn’t moved since the night before, hadn’t even stirred when I’d tried to shake her from whatever unseen terror had gripped her mind. I felt a wave of anger surge through me, I could do nothing but wait—and hope that whatever Corran was brewing could reach her where words and touch could not.

  I turned back just as Corran added another handful of herbs to the bubbling water. The steam thickened, shifting in color as dusk began its slow descent. First a pale blue, then a soft violet, the brew seemed to hold the fading daylight within its depths. A hush had fallen over the forest, as if the very air recognized the weight of the ritual.

  I swallowed hard, forcing down the unease curling in my chest.

  “How much longer?” I asked, my voice quieter than I’d intended.

  Corran didn’t glance up. “Nightroot blooms when the moon is at its peak,” he murmured, his tone calm, measured. “We wait.”

  I exhaled sharply and ran a hand over my face in frustration. I hated waiting.

  The minutes stretched, then blurred into hours. The weight of waiting settled over the camp like a thick fog, silent and suffocating.

  Rhys and Mylena returned, their arms full of unnecessary firewood, though neither of them spoke of it. They stacked their haul near Alexander’s tent before settling beside him, their usual banter absent. Instead, they sat quietly, watching Corran with the same quiet anticipation that gripped us all.

  The tea brewed in slow, deliberate stages, its scent shifting with each passing moment, thickening the air with a blend of earth and something more elusive, something ancient, something not entirely meant for mortal hands.

  Shadows stretched longer, creeping across the forest floor, swallowing the remnants of daylight inch by inch. The sky burned in brilliant streaks of crimson and amber, the last defiant flare of the sun before it gave way to the cool indigo of night.

  The fire’s glow deepened, no longer just a flickering light but a steady beacon in the growing dark. The camp sat in stillness, watching, waiting.

  The scent of the tea continued to change, growing cooler, more natural, like rain-soaked moss and the crisp air before a storm. Corran barely moved now, his fingers resting lightly on the worn handle of his silver stirring rod, his eyes fixed on the kettle’s shifting hues.

  With the daylight fading into velvet darkness, Corran waited until the exact moment when the moon reached its apex. The night grew hushed, heavy with anticipation, as he moved deliberately, lifting the lid of the small, ornate box. Inside lay the Nightbloom, a delicate blossom as pale as starlight. Its petals unfurled slowly, responding to the moon's gentle call. Corran carefully removed it, placing it within the heart of the glowing rune circle. As the flower touched the center, frost instantly bloomed along its edges, the air shimmering with faint snow-like motes of magic. A chill swept outward, and each rune Corran had meticulously traced flared brighter, pulsing in rhythm with the blossom’s gentle breathing. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, captivated by the profound stillness of the ritual unfolding beneath the watchful stars.

  A soft hum filled the clearing, low and resonant, not a sound made by anything living, but something else entirely. The fire flared, then steadied, its flames no longer dancing but bowing inward, drawn to the presence of the elixir.

  The Nightroot, connected to the runes, began to stir.

  My breath hitched as the petals that had unfurled, one by one, translucent and trembling like spun glass, grew. They pulsed with a gentle glow, the light spilling over Corran’s hands as he lifted them with quiet reverence. Carefully, he placed them into the waiting brew.

  The effect was immediate.

  The tea rippled, its surface fracturing into tiny starbursts of light before settling into a mirror-like stillness. The scent deepened, laced now with something more ancient and knowing. The kettle let out a single, delicate sound. Not the whistle of a kettle, nor the crackle of fire, but a note—soft, resonant, like the first chime of temple bells at dawn. It reverberated through my chest, settling low in my ribs as if the tea itself had awoken, aware of being witnessed.

  The tea began to bloom.

  The kettle—once ordinary, a copper thing blackened with use—transformed before my eyes. Fungi erupted from its surface in slow, deliberate spirals, curling along the spout and handle as though they had always belonged there. Their caps shimmered with iridescent hues, rich blues and deep crimsons flecked with golden specks like stardust caught in velvet. Some were broad and flat, their gills glowing faintly from beneath, while others were slender, reaching skyward with delicate stems that pulsed with unseen energy. Wisps of mist trailed from them, curling in the air, carrying the same spectral glow that lit the spaces between the stars.

  The body of the kettle itself had changed, its once-worn surface now a deep, earthen glaze streaked with swirling tendrils of sapphire and emerald, as though ocean currents had been trapped within its walls. Light pulsed beneath its surface, alive and shifting, casting strange patterns onto the iron hook it rested upon.

  I swallowed hard, unable to look away.

  I had seen magic before. I had seen enchantments woven with whispered words, seen runes carved into steel that flared with unnatural fire. But this was different. This was something alive, something ancient. It was not just any tea—it was hope. A gift.

  The mushrooms continued to grow, their caps widening, exhaling more of that glowing mist. The scent deepened, and I could feel it now—not just around me, but within me. A quiet calm unfurled in my chest, the tension in my shoulders loosening despite myself. The world seemed to soften at the edges, not in a way that dulled it, but in a way that made everything clearer. Sharper. As if for the first time, I was truly present.

  My gaze flicked to the tent where Lyra lay. The mist drifted toward it, slipping beneath the fabric as though drawn by unseen hands. I exhaled slowly, feeling something settle in my chest, possibility, fragile but stubborn.

  “Is it ready?” I asked, turning my gaze to Corran.

  Corran met my eyes for the first time. His eyes reflecting the soft glow of the mushrooms. He didn’t answer immediately, but instead reached for the kettle, pouring the first cup. The liquid streamed like molten silver, shimmering as it pooled in the waiting cup.

  “Let’s find out,” Corran said, gesturing for me to sit near the northern rune. He guided Mylena to the western rune, Alexander to the south, and Emre to the east.

  I hesitated, my gaze snapping back to Lyra.

  “Kieran,” Corran’s voice was steady but gentle. “I will not forget about her. I will need all my strength for her. It’s better the rest of you go first—for her sake.”

  Reluctantly, I joined the others and settled by the rune. Corran moved with careful precision, pouring the tea into delicate cups and passing them, one by one, as if handling something sacred.

  “Place your hand on the rune, then drink,” he instructed.

  “That’s it?” Alexander frowned at the dark liquid swirling in his cup. “I expected something more elaborate. A grand ceremony, at least.”

  I clenched my jaw, frustration boiling over. “Drink the damn tea, Alexander, or don’t—but decide now. I won’t waste another second.”

  Without waiting, I pressed my palm to the rune and downed the Nightbloom tea in one gulp, indifferent to whether it burned or froze. Lyra needed me, and every moment spent on ceremony was a moment stolen from her.

  The world around me froze. Time stood still as death itself.

  A soft glow formed just beyond the camp, a light so bright it burned against the darkness. It flickered and swayed, gliding closer with an unnatural grace, weaving tendrils of silver and blue through the air. My breath caught. Panic clawed at my chest. What had I done?

  I knew nothing of the true risk of the Nightbloom tea—only the promise of what protections it could afford. In my desperation, in my fear of losing the best tool I had against Killian, I had swallowed it without thought, without care.

  Had I just doomed myself?

  What did I know of Corran, truly? Oh gods, I had blindly trusted another again. When would I ever learn?

  Laughter, soft and airy, like the chiming of distant bells pulled me from my panic. It surrounded me, weightless and warm, a sound that lifted something heavy from my shoulders before I even knew it was there.

  The light before me took shape.

  Kneeling beside me was a vision of beauty, like something carved from moonlight itself. Her piercing, icy blue eyes met mine, seeing through me with an intensity that made my very soul flinch. In their depths, I saw something ancient, something wild. My breath caught as recognition dawned.

  Yalela.

  Bathed in true moonlight, her form shimmered with a gentle glow, as if sculpted from the night itself. The delicate antlers crowning her head gleamed like crystalline branches, her hair flowing like spun starlight, shifting with the soft pulse of unseen tides. Feathers of silver and cerulean draped around her in a gown of light, each strand catching the glow of the moon’s embrace.

  I stared, my confusion plain on my face. Yalela only smiled, a knowing, amused tilt to her lips.

  “Well, I do so prefer my cat form,” she mused, tilting her head. “But the moonlight has always favored this one.” A small, exasperated sigh escaped her as she rolled her eyes, though the celestial glow surrounding her never wavered.

  She reached out, the luminescent strands of her being rippling like mist. “The Nightbloom has chosen you, Kieran. It will protect your dreams. But you must decide whether you will listen.”

  She leaned in closer to me "Fear," she continued, her voice a whisper against the fabric of reality. "Fear is Killian’s greatest hold on you."

  I tried to speak, but the words would not come.

  She reached out, the movement impossibly slow, her fingers brushing the air between us. Tiny motes of light—shimmering butterflies of raw energy—flitted from her fingertips.

  "Let it go, Kieran," she murmured. "Fear connects you. It blinds you. And it will keep you forever in his grasp if you do not break free."

  I clenched my fists. "I—"

  "You do not stand alone anymore." Her voice was gentle, but firm. "Open your eyes. See the good in those who surround you. Lyra, Corran, even those whose intentions you still doubt. They are not your enemies."

  The mention of Lyra sent a jolt through me.

  Yalela smiled. "She is becoming important to you, isn’t she?"

  I said nothing.

  She leaned closer, her breath as light as mist. "Do not be so afraid of what is given freely," she whispered. "Strength does not always come from the fight—it comes from trust, from those who will stand beside you, even when you cannot see the way forward."

  The luminous strands of her form shimmered, beginning to dissolve, her presence fading like morning frost.

  "Do not let the past chain you, Kieran," she said, her voice echoing in the stillness. "Or you will never have the future you truly seek."

  In an instant, like mist beneath the rising sun, she was gone.

  The world around me ignited in a burst of searing white light—blinding, all-consuming. Then, darkness. But it was different this time. Quiet. Weightless. Peaceful.

  I drifted through it, unburdened. The tension that had coiled in my chest for so long melted away, leaving nothing but stillness. No pain. No rage. No fear. Just—

  A sharp sting snapped across my face.

  My eyes flew open just in time to see Alexander pulling back for what I could only assume was another swing.

  “Ahh, see? Nothing a good slap can’t fix. Welcome back, Kieran.” His grin was far too self-satisfied.

  I groaned, my senses sluggish as I realized I was sprawled on the ground. Pushing up onto my elbows, I blinked, taking in the others gathered around me.

  They weren’t annoyed. They weren’t impatient. Their expressions were tight with something else, worry.

  Mylena's mouth was pressed into a thin line, Rhys was uncharacteristically silent, and even Corran was studying me too intently, his usual composure slightly cracked.

  I swallowed, a strange unease creeping through me. Why did they look at me like that? Why did they care?

  I shoved the feeling down and smirked at Alexander instead. “Next time, maybe lead with a splash of water before you start swinging,” I remarked.

  “Next time,” Alexander grinned, pulling me to my feet.

  But the lightness of the moment vanished the instant my eyes landed on Lyra’s tent.

  “Kieran,” Corran’s voice was steady as he placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “If you would, please carry Lyra to the northern rune.”

  I didn’t hesitate.

  Moving swiftly, I reached her side. Cinnamis was kneeling beside her, sipping water, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. She had kept watch over Lyra, guarding her even in sleep.

  I met her tired gaze and gave her a small nod of thanks before kneeling to gather Lyra into my arms. She was weightless, her body limp with the venom’s hold. Yet even in slumber, she looked almost otherworldly—the moonlight casting a silver sheen over her skin, making her seem less like a prisoner of poison and more like a dream caught between realms.

  “I’ve got you, darling,” I whispered against her ear, though she did not stir.

  Cradling her close, I carried her to the northern rune, its ancient markings now pulsing faintly beneath the moon’s gaze. Carefully, I knelt and placed her at its center, ensuring her body aligned with the arcane symbols that would soon guide the ritual.

  Corran knelt beside me, the Nightbloom tea in hand. The liquid shimmered like diamonds, its silvery surface reflecting the runic glow.

  “Lift her head,” Corran instructed.

  Sliding my hand beneath her neck, I gently tilted her upward, holding her steady. Corran moved with precision, tipping the cup ever so slightly, allowing the tea to trickle past her lips. The silver liquid slipped smoothly down her throat, its magic already weaving into her body, chasing the venom’s cruel grasp.

  The moment the last drop was gone, I eased her head back down, my hand lingering for just a second longer before withdrawing.

  Corran straightened, his expression unreadable. “Please, step back from the runes,” he said, gesturing for us to move aside before turning his attention to Cinnamis and Yalela. “Ladies, if you will.”

  Cinnamis rose from where she had been resting and moved with quiet purpose to the eastern rune, the glow beneath her feet flaring in recognition of her presence.

  Yalela stretched, the motion fluid and effortless, her feline grace evident in the way her body moved. As she passed me, she brushed her side against my leg in an almost affectionate gesture, tilting her head up to meet my gaze with a knowing smile. I gave her a small nod, and she padded to the western rune, her steps silent.

  Corran strode to the southern rune, completing the circle.

  As one, they lowered themselves into seated positions, their eyes slipping shut in unison.

  The runes reacted instantly.

  A pulse of white light rippled outward, illuminating the camp in a delicate glow. The runes burned brighter, their ancient markings no longer just symbols etched into the earth but living conduits of power. Wisps of soft blue light rose from the ground, swirling around Corran, Cinnamis, and Yalela like whispered incantations given form.

  The air grew thick with magic, charged and humming with unseen forces, as the ritual to wake Lyra from the venom’s grasp truly began. The moonlight spilled over Lyra’s still form, bathing her in silver radiance as if the very night itself had chosen to cradle her. Her dark curls fanned out around her like a halo of shadows against the shimmering glow, each strand kissed by the gentle luminescence of the stars. She lay motionless, her breath so faint it barely stirred the air, trapped in the venom’s cruel slumber.

  The earth began to stir. Pale blossoms unfurled around her, their petals shimmering with an ethereal glow. Nightroot vines coiled and wove through the ground, twisting like tendrils of living silver, pulsing in time with the rhythm of the moon’s pull. Lunar lilies, ghostly and luminous, opened their petals wide, spilling droplets of opalescent light onto the soil, their glow cascading like falling stars.

  A whisper of wind rippled through the clearing, carrying the faint scent of moon-kissed petals. The air thickened, heavy with magic, as the silver light intensified. It swirled around Lyra’s body, lifting her, inch by inch, from the earth.

  The flowers bent toward her, drawn by some unseen force, their bioluminescent glow reaching for her like reverent hands. Nightroot vines curled protectively around her wrists, her ankles, weaving a cocoon of silver and sapphire, as though nature itself was shielding her from the venom’s grasp.

  Lyra hovered, suspended between earth and sky, caught in the moon’s tender grasp. The venom still clung to her, unseen but lingering, holding her captive in its dreamless abyss. But the moonlight did not waver. It pulsed, stronger, insistent—a silent battle between night’s mercy and the poison’s cruel embrace.

  For a moment, I held my breath. Would the light be enough? Slowly, Lyra drifted back toward the earth, her descent gentle yet heavy with exhaustion. Around her, the vibrant flowers, which had bloomed in wild bursts of color moments ago, now began to wither, their petals curling inward as if recoiling from an unseen chill. The lush blossoms dulled to shades of brown and gray, crumbling softly as they returned quietly into the earth, leaving only faint shadows of their former beauty.

  The mushrooms that had flourished on the kettle wilted one by one, their stems shriveling and caps collapsing gently onto the ground, dissolving into tendrils of silvery mist that faded swiftly into nothingness. The circle of glowing runes surrounding Lyra and the druids pulsed weakly, each heartbeat of their fading light slower and dimmer, dwindling until the once-brilliant symbols became mere shadows etched into the earth.

  Corran released a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping with fatigue as he slowly opened his eyes, their brightness dimmed and heavy with strain. Beside him, Cinnamis trembled visibly, her delicate frame swaying forward, her usually vibrant skin now pale and drawn tight over exhausted features. She seemed on the brink of collapse, gasping quietly for air, barely managing to steady herself. Seeing her distress, Yalela slowly rose, each of her movements deliberate and heavy, fatigue evident in the slow blink of her weary eyes and the sluggish manner in which she carried herself. She made her way to the struggling dryad and gently embraced her, allowing Cinnamis to rest against her soft, reassuring fur, providing a quiet anchor amid the lingering echoes of the faded ritual.

  I turned my attention back to Lyra. Her body was utterly still, suspended as if trapped between worlds. Her eyelids fluttered erratically, and the twitch of her fingers revealed a mind still trapped within the nightmare’s cold embrace. Fear flickered beneath her closed lids, her breathing rapid and shallow, each breath trembling as though drawn painfully from her chest.

  I moved closer, kneeling cautiously beside her and gently brushed the sweat-dampened hair from her face. My heart sank as I touched her skin cold as frost, her body rigid with unspoken terror.

  “Did it work?” I asked Corran anxiously over my shoulder, desperation creeping into my voice. “Why isn’t she moving?”

  Before Corran could respond, Lyra drew in a sudden, shuddering breath, and her eyes snapped open wide with panic. Raw terror filled her swirling eyes, the silver and green depths clouded with confusion, as if she saw horrors we could not imagine. Before I could speak, she recoiled violently, scrambling backward like a frightened animal until her back slammed into a nearby boulder with a sickening crack.

  She barely registered the pain, eyes darting frantically, searching for invisible threats lurking in the shadows. Her entire body shook uncontrollably, her breathing ragged with fear.

  I approached her carefully, reaching out to reassure her. “Lyra, it’s me—”

  “Stay back!” Lyra’s voice ripped through the air, shrill and filled with anguish. “P-please don’t hurt me!” Tears poured down her pale cheeks, her breathing spiraling into panicked gasps. Blood trickled slowly from where sharp stone met her skin as she pressed harder against the boulder, heedless of the injury.

  My chest tightened painfully. “Lyra, please—you’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

  But each step I took only heightened her terror. She flinched and pushed back harder, desperately trying to escape dangers that existed now only in her mind. I had no choice. Swiftly, I lunged forward and swept her into my arms, pivoting so my back took the brunt of impact against the harsh stone. Her screams pierced through me as she fought wildly, limbs thrashing, fists striking blindly in her desperation.

  I tightened my grip, whispering urgently yet soothingly into her ear. “Lyra, listen to me—the nightmare is over.” Pulling her head gently beneath my chin, I murmured softly, “You’re safe now. I have you. You’re free.”

  Alexander moved forward with deliberate gentleness, kneeling beside us and placing a reassuring hand on Lyra’s trembling back. His voice resonated with calm authority. “I’m here too. We shall protect you.”

  One by one, our companions approached, encircling Lyra protectively. Mylena reached for Lyra’s hand, clasping it tightly in her own, silent strength radiating warmth and compassion. Rhys knelt beside me, her fiery eyes filled with fierce devotion. “My axe remains yours, Lyra.”

  Alexander cleared his throat pointedly, his gaze drifting meaningfully toward Emre. She hesitated, resistance evident in her eyes, before finally relenting under Alexander’s steady stare. Stepping forward slowly, Emre knelt close, her voice firm yet gentle.

  “Until breath leaves me, my shield guards your life. Your enemies are mine, and I stand with you.”

  Alexander nodded approvingly at Emre, who simply rolled her eyes but allowed herself a slight, grudging smile.

  Gradually, the tense panic gripping Lyra began to ease. Her trembling quieted, her muscles relaxing incrementally in my embrace. I gently tilted her chin upward, gazing deeply into eyes still shimmering with tears but finally filled with recognition.

  Through her soft, broken sobs, Lyra whispered my name. “Kieran?” Relief flooded her voice, the tightness of fear loosening at last. “Oh, Kieran, I was so scared. I thought—I thought I’d never escape.”

  She collapsed fully into my arms, burying her face against my chest as sobs wracked her slender frame. We held her in silent unity, an unspoken bond of protection forming an impenetrable shield around her. Time seemed to pause in that tender moment; nothing else mattered beyond the slow restoration of Lyra’s fragile trust, the comforting reassurance that she was safe once more.

  Eventually, Lyra’s tears ceased, leaving only a faint, exhausted sniffle. Carefully, she sat up, meeting each companion’s gaze in turn with gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice hoarse but steady, “Thank you all for saving me from that awful place.”

  She turned to me, the smallest smile touching her lips. “You didn’t leave me behind. You didn’t give up.”

  I grinned gently, letting playful warmth return to my voice to banish the last shadows from her heart. “Well, darling, who in their right mind would abandon such a fascinating… feast?”

  Lyra’s eyes brightened as she released a fragile chuckle. “Oh, Kieran. Always thinking with your stomach. And here I thought only Rhys was motivated by food.”

  Rhys perked up, her earlier concern quickly shifting to hopeful enthusiasm. “Speaking of meals—Alexander, don’t suppose there’s anything left over?”

  Alexander shook his head fondly, amusement lighting his face. “I suppose if a certain molten dwarf were to lend a hand, I could whip something up.”

  The laughter that followed felt cleansing, chasing away the lingering darkness of Lyra’s ordeal and gently ushering our little party back toward warmth, safety, and the familiar embrace of camaraderie.

  Cinnamis giggled, a sugary-sweet sound that bubbled joyfully through the clearing. “Oh, my darling sweetlings, you’ve all fought so bravely! You've brought our Elder Druid and cherished friend back to us and,” she added with a playful wink, “given that nasty little venom quite a spanking—for now, at least.”

  She clasped her hands together in delight, practically bouncing with giddy excitement. “Now we simply must celebrate! Yes, yes! There shall be luscious treats, sugary delights, dancing beneath moonlit skies, laughter and games and plenty of sparkling drinks to keep spirits high!” Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Druids throw the most delightful parties, you know—just wait and see. Oh, and naturally,” she teased, lips curling into a honeyed grin, “clothing is always delightfully optional.”

  Before anyone could protest or blush, Cinnamis sprang to her feet with infectious cheer. “Come along, Sirthios—we have so much to prepare! Tomorrow night shall be the sweetest, most magnificent, utterly unforgettable celebration to send our dear heroes off on their next grand adventure!”

  As the bubbly dryad swept off with her guard captain trailing close behind, her laughter carried on the air, spilling out all the sugary details of the extravagant festivities she envisioned—flower garlands, honeyed cakes, enchanted music, and countless twinkling lights.

  Corran chuckled softly, shaking his head as he rose. “I'd better go after her, before she conjures up a whole carnival. Yalela will stay here with you until I return.” Still smiling, Corran hurried after Cinnamis, quickly disappearing into the darkness.

  Lyra stood slowly, extending her hand toward me with a gentle, slightly hesitant smile. I took her hand, feeling the subtle tremor in her fingers as she pulled me up, followed by the softest wince of pain flickering across her face.

  Immediately concerned, I held onto her hand a moment longer than necessary. “Turn around, darling. Let me have a look at your back,” I murmured gently, carefully spinning her around. I brushed aside her hair, revealing a small gash where the jagged stone had bitten into her skin, accompanied by the beginnings of a bruise that promised to be quite impressive.

  “I have a healing potion in my bag. It should take care of it,” Lyra said, peeking at me coyly over her shoulder, attempting to mask her discomfort with a playful tone.

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow, my fingertips lightly tracing the edge of the bruise. “I fear this might need something stronger than one of your mild potions.”

  Lyra turned slowly to face me, her expression softening into familiar warmth, eyes glinting with quiet humor. “Perhaps a healing potion and a proper night's rest, then.”

  My lips curled into a teasing smile as I tilted my head. “The last time you assured me that you just needed a good night’s sleep, things didn’t exactly go smoothly.”

  Lyra laughed softly, the sound warm and reassuring. She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand against my chest. “Well,” she teased softly, eyes glimmering playfully, “perhaps I should have begun with a cup of tea first.”

  I chuckled warmly in return, catching her hand in mine and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Indeed, darling. Let’s ensure we don’t skip such vital steps this time.”

  Lyra moved to join the others but hesitated halfway, turning back to me with uncertainty clouding her eyes when she realized I wasn’t following. She shifted slightly, as if debating whether to return, worry shadowing her delicate features.

  I quickly offered a reassuring smile, masking my own unease. “Forgive me, darling, but it's been an exceptionally long day. I’ll need proper rest—after all, tomorrow’s festivities will require me at my absolute best. Promises were made.”

  A faint blush bloomed across her cheeks, coloring her fair skin as she met my gaze. She gave a soft nod, seemingly reassured, before turning reluctantly to join the others. I watched her leave, the warmth in my chest suddenly sharp and uncomfortable.

  Shaking off the sensation, I turned sharply toward my tent. Once inside, I immediately reached for the bottle of Ice Wine from the previous evening. Without hesitation, I drained it in one swift, reckless gulp, desperate to silence the chaotic thoughts that raced through my mind.

  Collapsing heavily onto my bedroll, I stared up at the blank, shadowed canvas above me. An inexplicable sense of relief flooded my senses, washing over me like a comforting tide, then quickly twisted into suspicion.

  Relief? Why should I feel relieved?

  Lyra was safe, yes, but that meant nothing. She was merely a pawn in this carefully woven scheme of mine, a means to an end, a steppingstone in my plan to exact revenge on Killian. Nothing more.

  Right?

  The warmth in my chest returned, stubbornly persistent, making my stomach churn with unease. No, I insisted fiercely to myself, fighting down this dangerous line of thought. The relief was simply satisfaction in knowing my carefully orchestrated game remained intact, nothing sentimental about it. My position with Lyra was stronger than ever now—I had rescued her from the nightmare, secured her trust, strengthened our bond. She believed I was her protector, and soon she would trust me implicitly.

  I grinned bitterly into the darkness, my resolve steeling once more. Tomorrow I would be my most charismatic, my most charming, my most seductive self. The next move in my grand plan would ensure Lyra moved even closer, safely ensnared in the web I had so carefully spun.

  As exhaustion began to drag me toward sleep, an unwanted whisper slipped through my mind, soft and cutting like the edge of a blade:

  "Is she truly the pawn in your grand design—or have you become tangled hopelessly in your own threads?"