The silence following the Sun-Eater's fall was not peaceful; it was heavy, ringing with the ghost of the celestial scream that had nearly unmade them. The ruined sanctum was a graveyard of obsidian shards and cooling solar glass, but Lucian didn't look at the destruction. He didn't even look at the Oracle, who had retreated into the shadows to mutter her dark thanks to the void.
His focus was entirely on the woman in his arms. Lyra's skin was pale, almost translucent, but the mark above her heart was no longer a jagged wound. It was a deep, glowing amethyst, pulsing with a steady light that felt like a warm hearth in a winter storm.
"Can you stand?" he whispered, his voice vibrating with a rare, jagged edge of exhaustion.
Lyra nodded, though her legs felt like water. "I think so. But the room... Lucian, the Spire is bleeding."
