Rowan's POV
Lyra’s breathing had finally evened out beside me, a soft, steady rhythm that showed that she was finally at ease and I was glad. She didn’t say another word after I wrapped the blanket around her and sat by her side. She didn’t need to.
I looked at her, really looked.
Her face had lost weight in the past months, the edges sharper now—grief had carved out the softness she once had so effortlessly. The dark, sunken circles beneath her eyes told me she hadn’t been sleeping much. And even now, in the calm after the war, her body was tense beneath the blanket, like she was ready to spring awake at any given time if someone so much as touched her. .
But she had opened up.
That alone made something in my chest unclench for the first time in weeks.
I tilted my head back, let my eyes gaze up to the stars, but even their beauty felt muted tonight. Everything felt… dulled. Like we’d survived the fire, only to emerge into the ashes.
But she talked. She talked.
And I’d take that over
