He showed up just as the last shreds of daylight slipped behind the trees, boots thudding against the frozen ground with the kind of finality that said, This ends now. Lyra was waiting for him on the threshold, voice pitched so low I caught only the edge of it—enough to know the subject was serious.
I pulled the too-large cloak tight around my shoulders, steeling myself before I could talk myself out of following. The wind stung, sharp as teeth, sending my hair flying and making every bit of skin ache. The sisters hung back, letting Ronan come forward—he blocked what was left of the light, a looming wall.
He didn't even glance at them. His eyes—wolf-bright, cold, impossible to look away from—locked right on me, weighing, hunting, deciding.
"You were talking to my sister." Not a question. More like a sentencing, dropped between us with the weight of a stone.
