Lyra POV The village no longer smoldered, but the memory of fire clung to the air. Wolves moved like wraiths among the half-charred huts, gathering what remained - bundles of dried meat, cloaks patched and fraying, a few carved weapons that hummed faintly with old runes. Children clutched their mothers’ hems, wide-eyed, while elders whispered prayers in voices too brittle to hold conviction.Moera stood at the center of the square, spine straight as a spear. She was not tall, not like Ekreth or even Nyxar, but the ground seemed to anchor itself beneath her bare feet. Her braid hung to her hip, streaked with iron-gray, and her eyes glowed faintly with something not wholly mortal. The oldest blood of wolves, Lyra realized again. Gods still whispered through her veins.Lyra stepped beside her, cloak brushing ash. “We’ll take them south,” she said. “Ekreth knows a path.”Moera’s gaze slid to the dragon where he lingered at the edge of the square. Even in human form, he was unmistakable -
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