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A cough sounded behind her.

Not his.

Ezra.

He stepped into the clearing like a god ascending, robes torn but his smirk intact. The blade in his hand was slick with Jace’s blood, still humming with dark enchantment.

Lyra rose slowly, her entire body trembling. She stalked toward him leaving Jace’s lifeless body as anger, fear, loss, all consuming her ability to think clearly.

Ezra smiled. “You should’ve joined me.”

Her magic sputtered again, slipping between her fingers like water.

“You should’veseenwhat this could be, Lyra. Power without fear. Order without sacrifice.”

“Shut up,” she hissed.

“You think this little town’s loyalty means anything?” he went on, circling her like a predator. “The Moonlit Pact is a dream. It’s a weakness. And itbrokehim. Just like it’ll break the rest of them.”

“You killed him,” she choked out.

Ezra raised an eyebrow. “I gave him a warrior’s death.”

Her vision blurred, the world swimming in and out of focus like a mirage on hot pavement. The intricate runes etched beneath her skin—once vibrant with chaos magic—dimmed to a faint, sickly glow. Her heart wasn't just breaking; it was screaming, clawing, tearing itself to shreds inside her chest for him.

Ezra lifted his hand with theatrical grace, dark magic building in his palm—a swirling vortex of midnight and blood that pulsed with malevolent hunger. "This is your last chance, Lyra. Come willingly—and I'll spare what's left of your precious little coven." His voice dropped to a silken purr. "Reject me, and you fall with the rest. Our joining with your chaos and my practice could be extraordinary. Imagine what we could create together, what worlds we could reshape."

Her knees buckled beneath her, hitting the dirt with a dull thud as her magic faltered like a dying flame. The power that had always come so easily, so wildly, now seemed to retreat from her fingertips, leaving her hollow.

She stared down at Jace, bloodied, still, far too still—his broad chest unmoving, those storm-grey eyes hidden behind closed lids. Something inside her started togive, crumbling like ancient stone. The man who'd scowled and growled and protected them all with unwavering loyalty now lay broken, and it was more than she could bear.

The grief pulled at her like a riptide, threatening to drag her under completely, to drown her in its dark, cold depths.

Until a sound split the air.

Low.

Fierce.

Familiar.

A howl, not just any howl, but one that reverberated through the clearing and shook the very ground beneath them.

Ragged and wild, full of agony and rage and something deeper—something primal that spoke of mountains and moonlight and ancient pack bonds that could not be severed, not even by death.

From the edge of the battlefield, near where his body had been left to fade into the earth, a massive black wolf rose fromthe dirt, shaking off soil and leaves and the very grip of death itself.

Jace.

Alive. Barely. Butrising. Blood matted his midnight fur in dark, sticky patches, one leg dragging uselessly behind him, his side torn open to reveal glistening muscle beneath—but his eyes blazed gold, fierce with determination and something that looked suspiciously like love.

Ezra turned, shock rippling through his perfect features, his composure cracking for the first time since this nightmare began.

"What—"

Lyra moved before thought returned, before reason could caution her. The magic that had abandoned her moments ago surged back tenfold, like it had only been gathering strength.

Magic exploded from her chest in a violent surge that felt like it might rip her apart at the seams. It burned blue-white, crackling with silver sparks, streaking toward Ezra like a living storm hungry for vengeance. Her hands lifted automatically, mouth moving faster than reason, ancient words tumbling from her lips as the runes on her skinscreamedwith purpose, glowing so brightly they shone through her clothing.