Lyra didn’t go to the war room after the lower hall.
She went to the wash chamber instead.
Cold water. Stone walls. A single torch burning low. The kind of place meant for cleansing, not thinking.
Her hands were still shaking.
Not from fear.
From proximity.
Seeing Mara on her knees had done something violent to her sense of control. It had ripped a seam she’d been holding shut since the first day Ronan took her. Lyra braced her palms against the basin and leaned forward, breathing slowly until the tremor eased.
She did not cry.
She did not pray.
She recalculated.
The door opened softly behind her.
Lyra knew who it was without turning.
Tyler didn’t enter like other people. He didn’t announce himself with footsteps or breath. He arrived the way inevitability did.
“You shouldn’t
