Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 96: Lyre: Weight of Life (II)

LYRE

My magic curls out like tendrils, brushing against the walls of the chamber, tasting the carnage.

I’m too late.

The walls tremble. Dust sifts from the ceiling. My phone vibrates, one after another. Nonstop, and I already know what’s happening.

Divinity Connect is lighting like a Christmas tree, sensing the shift in my control.

Blood. So much blood. Most of it dried to rusty brown, flaking from the walls in macabre patterns. But near the furthest wall—fresh crimson glistens in the dim light. Still wet. Still new.

I walk deeper into the chamber, my steps deliberate. My magic extends further, parsing through the residual energy, and I go very still.

This wasn’t Isabeau.

Not entirely.

Jack-Eye steps up beside me, his face drained of color. "What the fuck happened here?" His voice shakes. He’s furious, and barely controlling his panic. The scent of it is strong, and yet still almost buried beneath the gruesome stench of this place.

I don’t answer. I can’t. My attention is focused on the room itself, on the energy patterns hanging in the air like invisible cobwebs. The bodies aren’t quite randomly placed. At least, not the ones outside of the cages.

Owen crouches beside one of the bodies, his movements clinical. He acts unaffected, but I can feel his core of arcana shaking. He checks for rigor mortis, examines the wounds on the neck and chest, like he does this every day. And maybe he does. "They didn’t fight back."

"They never had a chance." My voice is flat, but the rage continues building. At Isabeau, at whatever did this—but mostly at myself. I should have come back sooner. Should have evacuated them immediately. Should have not been distracted by Grace and her stupid mate and their nest of soulspliced kids.

I know better than to leave loose ends.

Then Jack-Eye stiffens beside me. "Do you smell that?"

through the stench of decay. An unnatural odor that doesn’t belong, like rain mixed with burnt sugar and molten iron,

My stomach turns.

mutter.

eyes gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. "Blood magic. But why does

bitter. Amateur work. Powerful, but sloppy. Like watching a child with a loaded gun—deadly,

And there they are. Four symbols, equidistant from each other, perfectly etched into the concrete. The glyphs are pristine, untouched by the

North. South. East. West.

kneel beside the eastern mark, narrowing my eyes. The lines are a little too squiggly. Some are too short. A few are too long. There’s a hook where there shouldn’t be and a few too many

"He’s pulling from banks."

me, examining the western

press my palm against the floor, feeling the emptiness where power should resonate. When I destroyed Isabeau, the magic in this space should

"She had an unusual hold over

tall frame tense with barely contained fury.

Someone with enough power to gather this much

Someone desperate.

"I don’t know yet."

behind. Who knows how his magic would have responded to

away, tied to

and throw out my hand, channeling my rage through my

doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t crackle or hiss. It

just tried to incinerate

face would be amusing if

from me, though

voice rough with barely contained fury. "Take Andrew and that twitchy wizard and get out

what about—" The Lycan Beta

peace." I cut him off, watching as the flames die down, leaving nothing but black scorches. "And I don’t want even a sliver of Isabeau’s influence

to ignore. Divinity Connect is having a field day with my emotional state. Probably logging every