Chapter 133 The Guardian

• The silence in Henry’s room was suffocating, a heavy, oppressive weight that seemed to press down on his chest with every labored breath. His surroundings were shrouded in darkness, yet the air felt thick, as if the shadows themselves were alive, watching him. Henry was awake, but the world around him was a hazy, half-formed nightmare, its grip on him unyielding. His fingers, sticky with the remnants of blood, curled and uncurled in confusion. Was it his own blood? Or someone else’s?
• A whisper slithered through the darkness, curling around his senses like icy fingers grazing his skin. A shiver raced down his spine, though the room itself was uncomfortably warm. His breath hitched, the faint taste of iron—a coppery tang that could only be blood—clinging to the back of his throat. Was it his? Or someone else’s?
• "You feel it, don’t you?” Lyra’s voice hissed through the shadows, the words curling around him like a cold wind. “The hunger, the thirst gnawing at your very soul? You’re already mine.”