The first person came before sunrise.
Lyra hadn’t slept. She sat at the small table in Tyler’s outer chamber, hands wrapped around a cup she hadn’t touched, listening to the compound breathe around her. Every sound felt amplified now. Footsteps. Doors opening. Murmured voices that died too quickly.
Fear had changed the acoustics of the place.
When the knock came, it was soft. Almost apologetic.
Mara opened the door.
A young woman stood there, shoulders hunched, eyes rimmed red. She wasn’t an enforcer. Not a fighter. Lyra recognized her vaguely from the storerooms. She handled linens. Bandages. Quiet things.
“She says she has information,” Mara said.
The woman’s gaze flicked to Lyra, then dropped to the floor. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered.
Lyra stood. “Then tell the truth.”
