The assembly had been peaceful until Lyra's knees buckled.
She stood at the rear of the great hall, shadowed by stone columns, her cloak drawn tight against the mountain chill.
For three years, she'd managed this — suppressing the biological imperative that defined her kind, dosing with inhibitors, avoiding populated packlands during lunar peaks.
She'd built walls within walls, convinced herself the omega nature could be outwitted through sheer force of will.
The delusion shattered at 7:43 PM.
It began between her ribs — a spreading warmth that felt initially like embarrassment, then like fever, then like wildfire consuming bone marrow.
Lyra gripped the column, her nails scoring ancient granite, her vision tunneling as her body finally rebelled against years of chemical restraint.
