The days that followed had no clean edges.
Lyra existed in a hazy space that was not quite waking and not quite the silver meadows Isolde had described during her early training. It was a place where time stretched and warped, and her body felt distant—like a house she was merely visiting rather than inhabiting. The only constant marker of the passing hours was the thick, sweet scent of healing incense burning by her bedside.
Isolde arrived on the second day.
She came without ceremony, stripping away the formal escort a Queen of her standing would usually command. She simply materialized at the edge of Lyra's bed, her silver hair loose and her ancient eyes carrying a heavy, familiar weight. It was a look Lyra had only seen once before: the night Cael was born.
Isolde placed both hands
