The Sanctuary of Scars didn't sleep. Even as the cookfires dimmed to glowing embers, the air was thick with the sound of whetstones against steel and the low, hushed murmurs of the Forsaken.
Lyra lay on a bed of moth-eaten furs in a small alcove Lucian had claimed for them. It was the first time in weeks she wasn't sleeping on the damp ground of a forest, but rest felt miles away. The silence of the cave was a lie; because of the tether, her mind was a crowded room.
She rolled onto her side, her back to the cavern. Five feet away, Lucian sat cross-legged on the stone floor, his back against the wall. He hadn't slept yet. He didn't need to—he was a creature of the dark, and the night only seemed to sharpen him.
Go to sleep, Lucian, she thought, not realizing she had sent the whisper through the bond until he stiffened.
"I can't," his voice came back, low and rough, vibrating in her mind before it hit her ears. "Your thoughts are too loud, Lyra. You're dreaming of fire."
