Rowan and Lyra sat in the quiet garden, the cool breeze threading through the leaves and brushing gently against their skin. The tension that had gripped Lyra's chest earlier had begun to ease, unraveling slowly under the open sky and Rowan's calming presence.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The world around them seemed to hold its breath—suspended in a moment of rare stillness.
Then, softly, Lyra asked, "What do you think happened to me?"
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of her question lingered between them. She stared down at her hands, the memory still sharp in her mind—the way her rage had surged, wild and unfamiliar, until it exploded outward, beyond her control.
Something had awakened inside her. Something powerful and terrifying. And though the storm had passed, its echoes still pulsed in her bones.
