The first scream tore through the palace like glass shattering.
Lyra knew, before Kael's storm-sense even snapped taut, that it was already too late.
The Third Gate had opened.
They raced back through the corridors of the Flame Court, the air itself bending with unnatural pressure. Torches guttered and died one by one, smothered as if by unseen hands. The walls—walls she had grown up within, walls that had sung with laughter, song, and fire—now wept silver light from their seams.
The scent of roses clung to everything. Too sweet. Too wrong.
Kael's lightning arced wildly across his arms as they burst into the main hall. Thorne was already there, sword drawn, dragging two wounded guards behind him. Their skin was pale, their eyes blackening at the edges.
"They turned," Thorne spat, his face pale beneath the grime of battle. "They just… turned."
Lyra barely heard him. She was staring at the dais.
