The peace Lucian had bought with his own blood lasted only as long as it took for the first moon of the New Year to crest the horizon. In the Obsidian Spire, the air was still thick with the scent of sandalwood and copper, but the atmosphere had shifted from carnal to lethal.
Lyra lay in the center of the black silks, her chest heaving as the dark energy of Lucian's blood settled into her marrow. She felt solid, grounded, but her mind was a jagged landscape of sensory overload. Every time she closed her eyes, she still saw the afterimage of that sterile white void, like a burn on her retina.
"Don't close them," Lucian commanded. He was standing by the arched window, his bare back to her. The scars from his previous battles with the Sun-Reach glowed a faint, angry red, reacting to the celestial energy gathered at the borders. "If you sleep now, you give them a doorway back in."
