The child was born on the longest night of winter, when the snow was deep and the fires burned low.
Lyra held her daughter in the farmhouse where four generations of her family had been born. The baby's eyes were grey—the grey of the void-touched, the grey of hope.
"What will you name her?" Kaela asked.
"Elara. After my grandmother."
"That's a lot of weight for a small person."
"She'll grow into it."
Kaela touched the baby's cheek.
"She's beautiful."
"She's stubborn. I can already tell."
"Like her great-grandmother."
"Like all of us."
---
The void stirred inside Lyra.
She carries my mark.
"The echo?"
Yes. She will be the next vessel. When you are gone.
"I'm not gone yet."
No. But someday.
"Then we have time to prepare her."
Time is not something we have. It is something
