The words hit me like a physical blow.
"Too late?" I echoed, my voice barely audible over the crash of waves behind us. "Too late for what?"
Queen Lyra's expression remained impassive, those violet eyes—so like mine in shape but not in color—revealing nothing. The priests flanking her, Silas and Pollux, regarded me with equal detachment.
"We should continue this discussion inside the temple," Silas said, his voice exactly as I remembered from my recovered memories—cultured, controlled, and utterly devoid of warmth.
My hands instinctively moved to protect my belly. These men had bound my wolf when I was a child. What might they want with my son?
"I'm not going anywhere with you until I get some answers," I said firmly, finding my voice. "Twenty-six years without a word, and this is how you greet me?"
Lyra squeezed my hand supportively as Ronan moved slightly closer to my side, his protective nature evident.
