The Counterattack
Lyra didn’t stay under the desk. She knew the oak was a grave, not a shelter. The assassins of the Hand of Sol didn’t wait for targets to emerge; they moved to the flank.
“Behind the map!” she yelled, not thinking, just reacting. Ronan was already moving, his daggers flashing, his enormous body a blur of muscle and gold eyes. He lunged toward the illuminated wall map, a solid object of defense.
The first assassin, a compact, shadow-clad male Lyra recognized as the Ghost Squad’s leader, dropped from the rafters, silent as powdered snow. He moved with impossible speed toward Ronan's blind spot. But Lyra had spent months studying Ronan’s every move, his fighting stance, and his habitual reliance on scent.
She spun, seizing the heaviest thing she could reach, a brass tele
