The hills beyond the Shattered Plains weren’t much of an improvement. Sparse grass clung to patches of rocky soil, and the air smelled faintly of sulfur. Small pools of stagnant water dotted the landscape, their surfaces rippling without wind.

  Aeryn was unusually quiet as we walked, her shadows flickering like restless sentries. She hadn’t mentioned Lyra since the night before, but I could tell the encounter still weighed on her.

  “You’ve been scowling for hours,” I said, trying to break the silence. “That’s got to be exhausting.”

  She didn’t glance back. “Focus on the road, Vale. You’ll trip over your own feet if you’re not careful.”

  “I’m just saying, maybe you could try relaxing. Maybe smile once in a while?”

  “Relaxing gets you killed.”

  “And scowling keeps you alive?”

  She stopped abruptly, turning to face me. Her violet eyes glinted like shards of glass in the pale light. “If you want to live, you’ll stop making jokes and start paying attention.”

  For a moment, I thought she was angry. But then her expression softened slightly, her smirk returning.

  “Though it’s impressive you’ve made it this far on charm alone,” she added.

  The shard in my pocket pulsed faintly, its light barely visible in the daylight. The whispers were quieter now, almost like a faint hum at the edge of my thoughts.

  I pulled it out, holding it up to examine it more closely. The blue light seemed to swirl beneath its surface, like trapped smoke.

  Aeryn’s gaze flicked to the shard. “Don’t let it draw you in.”

  “I’m not,” I said, though even as I spoke, I could feel its pull. “It just feels… different now.”

  “It’s alive,” she said, stepping closer. “The more you use it, the more it learns. The more it grows.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “Because that’s not unsettling at all.”

  She crouched beside me, her voice low. “If you want to control it, you need to understand it. The shard reacts to your emotions, your intent. If you focus, you can shape its power instead of letting it shape you.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” I said, tucking the shard back into my pocket.

  “It’s not,” she said, standing. “But it’s your only option.”

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  As the sun began to dip below the horizon, we found ourselves on the edge of a shallow canyon. The wind picked up, carrying with it a faint metallic tang.

  “Do you smell that?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

  Aeryn nodded, her shadows flickering. “Blood.”

  “Of course it is,” I muttered.

  We followed the scent to a narrow path that descended into the canyon. The walls were lined with jagged rocks, their surfaces slick with a faint green residue.

  At the bottom of the path, we found the source of the smell: a small caravan, its wagons overturned and splintered. The ground was littered with scorch marks and broken weapons, and a faint trail of blood led deeper into the canyon.

  “Nightmares?” I asked, scanning the wreckage.

  “Maybe,” Aeryn said, crouching beside one of the wagons. Her fingers traced the edge of a deep claw mark in the wood. “But this isn’t their style. Too clean.”

  “Clean?” I gestured to the mess around us. “This looks like a disaster.”

  She stood, her gaze distant. “Exactly. Nightmares don’t leave survivors—or trails.”

  A chill ran down my spine. “So, what did this?”

  Before she could answer, a faint sound reached us—soft, rhythmic, and far too deliberate to be the wind.

  Footsteps.

  A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the canyon, moving with the grace of a predator. Lyra.

  “Twice in one week?” I said, my voice louder than intended. “I’m starting to think you’re following me.”

  She smirked, her daggers glinting faintly in the fading light. “You’re hard to ignore, Vale. Everywhere you go, chaos follows.”

  “I think you mean survival,” I shot back.

  Lyra’s gaze shifted to Aeryn. “What do you make of this mess?” she asked, gesturing to the wreckage.

  “Don’t play coy,” Aeryn said, her shadow blade forming in her hand. “If you’re here, you already know what happened.”

  Lyra shrugged, twirling one of her daggers. “Maybe I do. But maybe I’m more interested in what you know.”

  “I’m not in the mood for your games,” Aeryn said, her voice low.

  “Good,” Lyra said, her smirk sharpening. “Because this isn’t a game.”

  Lyra took a step closer, her gaze locking onto mine. “The people who did this—they’re hunting the shard, Vale. And they’re not the kind of enemies you can scare off with a fancy light show.”

  “Then why are you here?” I asked.

  “Because you need me,” she said simply. “Whether you like it or not.”

  Aeryn’s shadows flared, sharp and jagged. “We don’t need your help.”

  “Really?” Lyra asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re outnumbered, outgunned, and out of time. You’re not going to make it out of this canyon without me.”

  Aeryn’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t reply.

  “I don’t trust her either,” I said, stepping forward. “But if she knows something, we need to hear it.”

  Lyra’s smirk widened. “Smart boy.”

  As we moved deeper into the canyon, Lyra explained what she knew.

  “The group that attacked the caravan—they’re part of something bigger,” she said. “A cult devoted to the Threads. They call themselves the Weavers.”

  “Of course they do,” I muttered.

  “They believe the shard is a threat to the fabric of reality,” Lyra continued. “I don’t know what they want to do with it, but they’re obsessed with it.”

  “Great,” I said. “Another group of people trying to kill me.”

  “They’re not just after you,” Lyra said, her tone serious. “They go after anyone who’s touched the Threads. She already knows.” She nodded toward Aeryn.

  “I’d like to see them try,” Aeryn said, her shadows bristling.

  “They already have,” Lyra said, stopping abruptly.

  Ahead of us, the canyon opened into a wide clearing. At the center stood a towering monolith of black stone, its surface etched with glowing green runes.

  A group of hooded figures surrounded the monolith, their hands raised as they chanted in unison.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “The reason we’re here,” Lyra said, her grip tightening on her daggers.