Each day she journeyed deeper into the skeletal remains of the city. Echoes of dripping water became her rhythm. The scent of oil, rust, and rot became familiar. She passed resistance outposts cloaked in silence, their guards watching her with suspicion until she whispered his name:
“Solace. I’m his sister.”
Some looked away.
Others nodded slowly, as if hearing the name of a legend. A ghost.
“Some say he’s real,” one woman told her in a cracked voice. “Others say he’s dead, or became the tunnels themselves.”
But Lyra knew better. Blood called to blood.
He was out there.
And she would find him.
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