As dawn broke, soft light washed over the cliffs, turning the sea into a shimmering blend of silver and blue. But the storm that Lyra and the Whisperborn had just fought left more than ripples in the water—it left scars deep within their hearts.

Lyra sat on a cold stone ledge, gazing out at the shore, still clutching her mother’s sea-steel blade. Her hands trembled, not from exhaustion but from the weight of what she had just faced. The memory of the Hollowed King—her father—leading ...