"Sylara."
The single word struck like a thrown dagger, clean and sharp.
Sound rushed back into her ears—the rasp of Vyrik's uneasy breathing, the mournful creak of branches high above, the far‑off hiss of mana weaving through roots. She staggered upright, hand flying to steady herself on the gnarled bark at her back.
"What in all voids was that?" Her voice cracked, thin as parchment. The lullaby was gone, but its aftertaste lingered: copper on the tongue, starlight behind her eyes.
Draven strode forward, boots whisper‑silent over the rune‑lit moss. Even in the half‑gloom his presence radiated edges: crisp collar, immaculate coat, blades sheathed but never harmless. He stopped a pace away, pupils contracting as they snapped from Laethiel to her.
"You felt it." Not a question—an assessment.
