Lyra floated in it, her body weightless, her thoughts scattered. There was no pain here. No sound. No fear. Just the strange, warm pull of nothing.

She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or dying.

But somewhere far away, like a whisper through a storm, she heard someone calling her name.

“Lyra…”

The voice was deep. Rough. Familiar.

Something inside her stirred. The darkness shifted. Her fingers twitched.

Then came the heat.

Not the soft warmth of a fire, but burning heat that crawled across her skin like wildfire. Her chest tightened. Her heart stuttered. She tried to move. She tried to scream.

Nothing.

“Stay with me,” the voice growled, closer this time. Desperate. A hand gripped hers. Large, rough, trembling.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You don’t get to leave me too.”

Pieces came back. The tray. The tea. The pain. Her knees hitting the floor. The cold. The dark. And him.

She wanted to open her eyes, to speak. But she couldn’t. Her body was too far away. Her limbs wouldn’t move.

The darkness pulled again, harder. And she almost let go.

Almost.

Kieran sat beside the bed, his hand wrapped tightly around hers. She was so still. Too still. Her skin had gone pale, her lips barely held color. Her breathing was shallow, and every time it paused, his heart nearly stopped with it.

The healers had done all they could.

The poison had been slow, clever. Disguised in tea. Enough to kill a human, or weaken a wolf beyond recovery.

But she hadn’t died yet.

That scared him more than anything.

She wasn’t dead… but she wasn’t alive either. She was caught between both. And he couldn’t reach her.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched tight as he watched her chest rise and fall — too soft, too weak.

“Fight,” he whispered. “Fight, damn you.”

She didn’t move.

Kieran ran a hand down his face. His fingers were slick with sweat, his body tense. He hadn’t left her side. Not since he’d carried her in.

He could still hear the sound of her body hitting the floor. The crack of her knees. The way she gasped. And that one word — his name — on her lips before she collapsed.

He’d nearly torn the palace apart.

But whoever had poisoned her had been careful. Smart. The cup had been taken away. The servant who delivered it? Vanished. No scent. No trail. No answers.

Only her, lying here like this.

He leaned in, brushing her damp hair away from her forehead.

“You don’t get to give up,” he said softly. “Not when I just found you.”

Inside the dark, Lyra heard him again.

Her name. His voice. Always just close enough to reach for but never touch.

She tried to speak and tried to move.

Her body felt heavy, like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

But there was something else now… something buzzing beneath her skin.

Warmth.

A flicker of light.

She leaned into it.

And it grew.

Kieran didn’t know how much time had passed.

The fire had burned down twice. The healers had come and gone, shaking their heads. The servants brought water and left.

He hadn’t moved.

He couldn’t.

Something about this girl this cursed, blind girl who didn’t flinch when he got close—she made him feel something he hadn’t in a long time.

Hope. And fear.

She wasn’t like the others.

The bond was quiet but strong. It didn’t burn or sting like it had with the past ones. His curse hadn’t tried to kill her yet.

But now this.

Poison.

She’d nearly died in his arms.

He couldn’t let it happen again.

His voice broke as he spoke, his forehead pressed to her hand.

“If you leave, I swear to the gods, I’ll burn this whole damn kingdom to the ground.”

Lyra stirred.

Not with her body.

But her breath.

It hitched. Soft, but there.

Kieran looked up fast, his eyes wide.

“Lyra?”

Her fingers twitched in his. Then again.

She gave a soft, broken sound — like a whimper trapped in her throat.

He leaned closer.

“Lyra. Come back.”

Her lips moved, barely.

“…Kieran…”

That one word nearly dropped him to his knees.

She was still in there.

She was still fighting.

He pressed his palm to her cheek, felt the faint warmth of her skin.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

When she woke again, it was slow.

She blinked against the dark, her head pounding. Her body felt sore and heavy. Her mouth was dry.

She couldn’t see — not really. Just soft outlines. Faint shapes.

But she felt warmth. The fire. And something else.

Someone was holding her hand.

She turned her head slowly.

“Kieran,” she rasped.

He was there. Sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes were bloodshot. His clothes rumpled.

“You came back,” she whispered.

“I never left,” he said.

She swallowed, her throat dry and raw.

“…Water?”

He reached for a cup instantly, helping her sit up just enough to drink.

She took small sips, the coolness helping. She closed her eyes after.

“Was it her?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “The woman…”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “I don’t know. But I will find out.”

Lyra nodded weakly. “She said… I’d be dead by morning.”

“You almost were.”

He paused.

“I thought I lost you.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I don’t even know you,” Lyra said, her voice soft, confused.

“You will,” he said simply.

Later, when she was resting again, Kieran stood by the fire.

His arms crossed, his jaw tight.

He turned to her once more, and said, voice low and firm:

“You’ll stay. You’ll eat, rest, and recover. You’ll be protected.”

She looked up at him from the bed, her body still weak.

“And after that?” she asked.

He stared at her for a long moment.

Then, softly, like a challenge, like a dare:

“After that, you can choose. To leave…”

He stepped closer.

“Or to stay.”

His eyes locked on hers, glowing faintly in the firelight.

“To find out if you’re the one who survives me.”

Warmth.

That was the first thing Lyra felt.

It wasn’t comforting warmth. It was strange. Heavy. Too much. Her body ached. Her head was pounding. Her throat was dry like she hadn’t had water in days. Every breath she took carried the scent of firewood, leather, and something darker… stronger. Male.

She tried to sit up, but her body didn’t listen. Her arms were weak. Her legs numb.

Where was she?

This wasn’t the cell. It didn’t smell like blood or rust. The air was too clean. The bed too soft.

She blinked slowly. Her eyes didn’t see clearly. Just light. Shadows. Shapes.

A figure sat in a chair across the room, his arms crossed. He didn’t move. But she felt his eyes on her.

Her chest tightened.

“Who are you?” Her voice came out dry and hoarse.

The man stood and walked closer. Each step was calm. Quiet. His presence filled the room. He didn’t need to speak to show power. She felt it in her bones.

Then he spoke.