Smoke lay in the valley's low places like a second river. The HIMARS pod ticked as it cooled. The Black Dragon's long barrel breathed heat in shimmering sheets. Beneath all of it, Inigo heard small things again: the drip from a shattered gutter, the hiss where river met hot stone, Lyra's breath—a thin, stubborn rasp.
He slid to her, hands already moving. Pupils: uneven, reactive. Pulse: fast, thready. He eased a folded bandage beneath her broken shoulder to keep it high, cinched the sling tighter, and laid clean cloth along the cut at her temple.
"Lyra," he said softly. "If you hear me, stay still. Breathe. Let me be stupid for a while."
Her lips moved, a soundless refusal, then stilled.
The earth answered with a new sound. Not rockfall—deeper. A pulse, slow as a forge-bellows.
Inigo looked up.
