The message came on a Tuesday, which Lyra decided was rude.
She was elbow‑deep in a junction box behind the pantry, muttering at whoever had thought running ward conduits next to the freezer line was a good idea, when Theo’s voice crackled over her radio.
“Lyra? Uh. You might want to come to Atlas’s office.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did something explode?”
“No,” Theo said. “Not yet. But there’s…a call. For you.”
That was new.
She wiped dust off her hands and headed upstairs, the faint hum of the wards shifting as she moved through the house. Curious. Watchful.
Atlas’s office door was ajar. Voices drifted out—Atlas, Elara, a third threaded with Council polish that made her skin crawl a little.
She knocked once and stepped in.
Atlas sat behind the desk, Elara perched on
