LYRAEleven months. That’s the number I kept coming back to, lying on my back on the narrow bed in the isolation chamber, staring up at the ceiling bathed in the pale, grey light of early morning. Eleven months since I’d woken up in a hospital room in Iceland, lungs full of smoke, a stranger’s eyes watching over me, and everything I thought I was had shattered into pieces. Eleven months since I heard the word mate for the first time, and it landed somewhere so deep inside me that I couldn’t have argued with it if I’d tried. Eleven months living in this world, with its harsh laws, tangled politics, biting cruelty, and unexpected beauty. A world that loved fiercely, fought hard, bled deep, and kept moving forward no matter what. Eleven months surrounded by Ravenwood’s cold stone walls, endless council chambers, pack dinners filled with quiet tension, and mornings spent in gardens that didn’t belong to me yet. Eleven months, and I was still learning the language of this place. Still
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