Chapter 21. Waking the Bonefire

The night air carried the faint, metallic tang of ash, drifting on a breeze that whispered across the high cliffs. The sky above was a tapestry of muted stars winking through thin clouds, while below, the dark river wound its steady song between rocky banks. Lora lay sprawled on the damp grass, her cheek pressed against blades wet with midnight dew, every fiber of her being trembling from exhaustion so deep it felt as though her bones might dissolve. For the longest while, she convinced herself this was still a dream—a restless, fractured vision born of fevered sleep—where shards of broken mirrors glinted and a faceless shadow haunted her edges.

Slowly, as if waking from a long, disoriented reverie, she sat up. The motion was awkward, muscles stiff and complaining, but when her fingers brushed the grass, she realized it wasn’t soft earth she felt, but something alive. Her hands shook—not with feeble weakness, but with the electric tremor of something powerful barely contained.