The blame

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The golden star doesn’t just watch—it *calls*.

Its light seeps into the soil, the air, the survivors’ dreams. By dawn, the wasteland is unrecognizable. Jagged obsidian spires erupt overnight, their surfaces etched with the spiral-and-thorns. The survivors huddle in their shadow, their eyes hollow, skin glistening with a faint gold sheen. Even Ravel’s shovel, once dull and rusted, gleams unnaturally, as if the star’s gaze polishes the world into something sharper, colder.

Mira approaches me at dusk, her med-kit trembling in her hands. “They’re hearing voices. Jax says it’s *her*—Lyra. That she’s alive in the static.”

“Lyra’s gone,” I say, but the words feel hollow. The static in my chest, though muted, throbs in time with the star’s pulse.

“Are you sure?” Mira’s gaze drifts to the horizon. “They’re saying she’s in the glass.”

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**The Fractured Sanctuary**