Rowan stepped out of the cell as if nothing had happened. His stride measured, his face an unreadable mask but Lyra could feel the residue of suffering that clung to the air like smoke after fire. The chill in the corridor, the faint metallic scent of blood—it all screamed of what had transpired behind those iron bars.
But there he stood.
The man she had lost sleep over, imagined broken and chained.
And yet… he looked at her with surprise, not pain.
"Luna…" Rowan's voice was quiet, startled. His eyes widened for a heartbeat before narrowing in confusion, taking in the sight of her—barefoot, breathless, her eyes burning with unspoken questions.
Lyra blinked, unsure whether to feel relief or dread. Something was off.
Then her gaze dropped to the hem of his shirt, where dark crimson stains seeped into the torn fabric.
Her heart lurched violently.
She surged forward without hesitation. "Rowan, are you okay? Did the Queen… did she punish you?"
