The medical case didn't shatter like glass.
It burst wet. The seams split with a soft pop and something hit the dark wood, slick and pulsing, trying to breathe with lungs that weren't lungs. No bigger than a fist. Red, veined with silver, floating a half-inch off the floor where tank fluid hissed and ate into the varnish.
It had a face.
Elara's face. Wrong, though. Too small, eyes sealed shut, mouth opening and closing around nothing. Hair like wet thread stuck to its scalp.
Lyra screamed.
Not the howl from before. A raw, terrified child's scream that cut straight through the white light still pouring from Maeve's hands and Lyra's own small palm, still pinning Darius to the elevator doors. He hung there, chest arched, silver light holding him up, mouth open in his own silent scream.
