"Get up," Lyra ordered, her hands trembling as she pressed them against the steady, pulsing flow of dark blood oozing through Vane's heavy coat. "Vane, you have to get up!"

Around them, the feral ward descended into chaos. Four heavily armored Lycan guards surged into the cell, throwing thick iron

The following evening, Lyra was standing in her indoor garden, aggressively tearing the leaves off a sprig of ghost-root, when the heavy lock on her door turned.

She didn't look up as the door swung open. She knew his scent before he even stepped into the room—frost, leather, and the metallic tang

The words hung in the freezing air, sharp and jagged as the icicles clinging to the obsidian parapets. *Caleb.* The name alone was enough to make Lyra’s stomach churn, a toxic mixture of old heartbreak and fresh, blazing anger rising in her throat.

"It seems," Vane repeated, his voice dropping an