Lyra

I can feel the adrenaline coursing through me, making everything sharper, more urgent. The creature is massive—more massive than any I've ever seen—and its roar is deafening. But Finn is doing something. I don't know how or why, but he's holding the creature in place, its monstrous limbs slowing down as if caught in thick mud.

I don't waste time questioning it. We don't have the luxury for that.

I rush forward, my eyes locked on the creature's glowing, unnatural ones. The weapon in my hands is heavy, but I don't feel the weight of it. Not now. I raise it, ready to strike, the determination to survive pushing me forward.

It's strange, but I can almost hear Finn's voice inside my head, telling me to go. It's not the first time he's been the calm in the storm for me, but this time, it's different. The connection we've built, through everything—through all the dangers, the fears, the pain—is stronger than ever.

I take a breath, steady myself, and in one fluid motion, I leap at the creature. It doesn't see me coming—its focus is still distracted by Finn, who continues to manipulate time around it. With a swift motion, I bury my weapon deep into the creature's side, feeling the sickening thud as the blade makes contact with its flesh.

The creature lets out a screech that rattles my bones, its glowing eyes flaring with fury as it thrashes against the restraint of time Finn has placed on it. For a moment, I think it might break free, but Finn's voice shouts over the storm.

"Lyra, move!"

I don't need to be told twice. I roll out of the way as the creature attempts to swing one of its massive limbs at me. I barely dodge the blow, but I'm too close to it now. The energy is changing. It's pulling at me, like the very wind is turning against us.

"We have to finish it!" I yell, my voice barely heard over the storm.

Finn, still standing strong despite the strain, shakes his head. "I can't hold it much longer. You need to strike—now!"

I know what he's asking. And for a moment, doubt creeps into my mind. What if we're not enough? What if this isn't just a creature? What if it's something far worse, something beyond anything we've ever fought before?

But Finn's face is set with determination. His time power is waning, but he's pushing himself, holding the creature at bay. I can see the strain on his face, the sweat dripping down his temples, the tightness in his jaw. He's giving everything to this moment.

And I can't fail him. I can't fail us.

I step forward again, gathering every ounce of strength I have left, and with a single strike, I aim for the heart of the beast.

Finn

The storm rages on, but I'm numb to the wind, to the rain, to the crashing lightning. My focus is on one thing and one thing only: keeping that damn creature from tearing Lyra apart. I can feel my control over time slipping, the seconds stretching and bending like rubber bands, ready to snap.

But I can't stop now.

I feel the air pulse around me, thick and heavy, and I know the creature is more than just flesh and bone. It's something older, something tied to the chaos Mother Nature has unleashed. It's not just an animal—it's a force. And if we don't stop it, everything we've fought for will be wiped away.

Lyra's there. I can hear her move, her breath steady and calm despite the chaos. I see her strike. She's fast, and she's precise. It's almost like she was born for this.

But even as I push, even as I stretch time to its breaking point, I can feel myself weakening. The pull is getting stronger. I can't hold it forever.

I can't let go.

I take a shaky breath, the wind pushing against me, the creature's wild movements fighting against the time field I've wrapped around it. My arms feel like they're about to give out. The world is heavy, and it's all on me to make sure Lyra has a chance. To make sure she survives.

"You've got this, Lyra," I whisper to myself, even though I know she can't hear me. It's the only thing keeping me going.

And then, in a flash, there's a moment—a heartbeat—where everything slows down. Time itself seems to stop.

I see it in my mind—the way she moves, the strike, the way the weapon buries itself in the creature's heart. It's perfect. And I know, deep down, that this is the moment.

But that moment comes with a cost.

Lyra

It's over.

The creature crumbles, its massive body collapsing into the storm, the roar of its death fading into a low growl. The wind howls around us, but it's not the same. The tension is gone, the air clearing, as if the creature's very presence had tainted everything around it.

I stand there, panting, my body shaking from exhaustion, but I can't look away from Finn. He's standing there too, his hand on his knees, breathing heavily, but there's something in his eyes. Something that tells me that we've done it. We've won.

But I can't shake the feeling that this is only one piece of a much larger puzzle. There's something in the air, something strange, and I don't know if it's over yet.

I glance down at my hands, the blood on them—the creature's blood, my blood—and I feel something stir deep inside me. We've faced monsters before, but this time... this time, it feels different.

"Lyra," Finn says, his voice hoarse but steady, "We need to keep moving. This isn't over."

And just like that, I know he's right. It's far from over.

Mother Nature

The battle is won, but the war is not finished.

I watch them—Lyra and Finn—standing tall, despite the odds. Their bond is strong, and together, they have the power to stop what is coming. But even they don't know the true weight of the world's unraveling.

The storm has passed, but the world remains broken. And so must they—shattered, but together.

Their journey continues.

And I will be watching.