Lyra's lips were pale, bitten raw. Her knees buckled as the dark wings unfurled behind her, casting shadows that flickered like torn sails in a storm. Her fingers trembled, not from fear—but from the sheer magnitude of what pulsed beneath her skin.
She looked down at Kael, who was still on the ground, coughing out black smoke. The shadowfire dagger had melted in his hand, its curse rebounding as if the throne had rejected him outright.
"I trusted you," she rasped, voice cracked from power and grief.
Kael raised his bloodshot eyes. "You weren't supposed to survive the second death..."
The words pierced deeper than any blade. She wasn't supposed to survive.That was always the plan.
Lyra felt it now—the throne was not hers alone. It was alive. It hungered.And she had opened its gates.
There was something inside her that didn't belong to her. A presence.Ancient. Cold. Watching.
