LYRA POINT OF VIEW

The path to the cottage felt longer than usual.

Not because I had forgotten it, no, I could walk it blindfolded, but because tonight, something restless followed me. The forest was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears and made every small sound feel louder than it should.

My cloak brushed against the undergrowth as I moved quickly between the trees, the hem catching briefly on thorns before I pulled it free. The moon hung low above, its pale ...