Chapter 132: Living Prophet
Caelen couldn’t breathe.
His back was pressed hard against the jagged stone of the crumbling ruin wall, each breath a panicked gasp that rattled in his throat.
Dust clogged his lungs.
Blood pounded in his ears.
His fingers—cut and raw—dug into the stone like claws, as if gripping it might anchor him to a reality rapidly slipping from his grasp.
Beside him, Lyra clutched at her temples, her body wracked with tremors.
Her knuckles had turned ghost white, locked in a grip so tight it looked like her bones might snap through skin.
And then—they both screamed.
It was not the scream of fear.
Not even pain.
It was something deeper, more primal—a scream stolen from the mouths of things that lived before men had names.