The rain had not stopped for three days.
It fell in a steady rhythm, soft yet relentless, washing over the blackened ruins of the valley where the Hollow had once pulsed. Lyria stood on the ridge, the hood of her cloak heavy with water, her eyes fixed on the distant forest below. The trees swayed like whispers of the dead, their shadows alive beneath the weight of the storm.
Every droplet that struck her skin carried a faint echo of him. Kael.
He was gone, and yet he wasn't. His power still threaded through her veins like smoke, restless and dangerous. Sometimes she could almost feel his hand on her shoulder, a phantom warmth that burned deeper than fire. But when she turned—always—there was only the rain.
"Three days," murmured a voice behind her. "You've stood here for three days, Lyria."
