Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 95: Lyre: Weight of Life (I)

LYRE

"Keep up or get left behind," I call over my shoulder, not bothering to slow my pace. "Consider it motivation to avoid becoming part of the décor."

The ragtag group of the Lycan King’s misfits follow in shocked silence. The reinforced steel doors sealing off this prison from the outside world are still on the ground from when I broke through them earlier.

And from the moment we walk into this hellscape, we’re greeted with the scent—which hasn’t dissipated, despite the fresh air I’ve introduced to this place.

Ragged edges of magic still spark against my skin like static electricity, the desperate, dying throes of glyphs barely holding on.

"Don’t touch the walls," I add, watching Andrew trail his fingers dangerously close to a partially destroyed binding sigil. "Unless you want to spend the next decade convinced you’re a teacup."

There’s no possible way for a basic defense glyph to create such mental havoc, but he has no idea.

The young man yanks his hand back, his face paling under the weak emergency lights. He’s been jumpy since we entered the tunnel system, looking over his shoulder every few steps like he expects something to grab him from behind. Not entirely irrational, given the circumstances, but amusing to watch.

The nervous wizard follows closely behind him, his fingers digging into his arms, which are crossed across his chest as if to hold his racing heartbeat in. He looks like he’s going to pass out any second, and his eyes dart all over the place behind ridiculous copper-wire spectacles. The poor thing is practically vibrating with anxiety.

He’s still a baby. Barely able to manipulate mana. Too much exposure to the blood arcana in this space might burn out what little talent he has.

Oh, well. It isn’t my problem.

Would be a shame, though.

Jack-Eye is ill-at-ease, but you’d never guess it if you weren’t paying attention. He moves with focused precision, not distracted by things like blood-smeared magical sigils, but his shoulders are locked tight. His nostrils flare constantly, filtering through the smells of this place.

He knows this place is strange, but he’s not going to pester me with questions.

Small favors.

into every line of his body. The tension in his body speaks the language of resigned

take,

into a wall. My jaw tingles with the sudden urge to vomit, but

baby wizard? He doesn’t

his entire body already tells me what I

is flushed with embarrassment, a thin line of saliva still connecting him to the puddle

want to burn those shoes," I tell him flatly. "And maybe

the sound

stench is too strong. Rot and blood and something else—something ancient and cloying, sticking to the back of your throat so you can taste it every time you swallow. It’s the scent of decay, but not

Fucking sanguimancers.

finally breaks his silence, voice

floor. "Isabeau liked to collect living batteries. The longer they suffered, the more

they? How much farther?" Andrew asks, still

pens.

to elaborate. The

then that I notice

Complete, absolute silence.

trapped shifters. No whispers of movement. No

Just... stillness.

centuries. I’ve lived too

isn’t peace.

"Wait here."

"But—" Andrew starts.