The first thing Lyra noticed was the silence.
Not the gentle stillness before dawn, but the kind that hollowed out corridors and seemed to swallow sound. She had been walking through the palace for nearly an hour, following the thin thread of Kael's storm-sense and her own unease, and with every step, the air grew colder.
Ashenya was gone.
No one had seen her leave—no guards, no servants, not even Thorne, who prided himself on knowing the palace's pulse. But Lyra knew in her bones that Ashenya hadn't simply wandered. She had been pulled.
Kael found her in the north hall, the one that led toward the forgotten gates beneath the city. His eyes were narrowed, stormlight flickering faintly behind them, the kind that made even Flameborn guards keep their distance.
"She's not here," he said. "But she's not far. The bond between you three—me, you, and her—twists when I reach for her. Like a thread snagged on something sharp."
Lyra's mouth was dry. "Show me."
