The cold had a weight tonight.
It pressed in from all sides, sinking into Lyra's chest until every breath felt stolen. Even the moonlight seemed heavier, bending around the shattered spires of Esthara as if reluctant to touch them.
They stood at the outer gates.
Or what was left of them—broken arches and columns of ice that reached toward the sky like the fingers of something drowned, still clawing to the surface.
From the city's heart came the sound.
That low, steady thrum she had felt in her bones since they'd arrived. Now it was louder, deeper, like the beat of a giant's heart. And it was speeding up.
Kael's gaze was fixed on the glow deep within Esthara. His jaw was tight, his posture coiled. The storm under his skin was restless tonight—she could feel it through the bond, every crackle of energy like an itch at the edge of her thoughts.
"Once we step past those gates," Thorne said quietly, "there's no turning back."
