Lyra's POV
The first light of dawn spilled over Riverbend, painting the forest in muted golds and soft greens, streaking across the canopy in dappled patches that danced over the clearing.
Lyra sat on the edge of the central lodge's porch, legs dangling over the railing, toes brushing against the rough wood, as the crisp morning air filled her lungs.
Each inhale carried the scent of pine, wet earth, and the faint tang of smoke from the fireplace that had burned through the night.
The forest, once still from the chaos of the past days, seemed to awaken cautiously. Birds chirped in short, wary bursts, and a mist clung stubbornly to the underbrush, twisting around roots and boulders like translucent serpents.
