LYRE
"Keep up or get left behind," I call over my shoulder, not bothering to slow my pace. "Consider it motivation to avoid becoming part of the décor."
The ragtag group of the Lycan King's misfits follow in shocked silence. The reinforced steel doors sealing off this prison from the outside world are still on the ground from when I broke through them earlier.
And from the moment we walk into this hellscape, we're greeted with the scent—which hasn't dissipated, despite the fresh air I've introduced to this place.
Ragged edges of magic still spark against my skin like static electricity, the desperate, dying throes of glyphs barely holding on.
"Don't touch the walls," I add, watching Andrew trail his fingers dangerously close to a partially destroyed binding sigil. "Unless you want to spend the next decade convinced you're a teacup."
There's no possible way for a basic defense glyph to create such mental havoc, but he has no idea.
