Lyra was limp in my arms.
The fight, the screams, the weight of years she carried—it had finally wrung her dry. I'd held her through it, through every choked sob and shaking breath, her voice ripped raw by grief and guilt. Now she was quiet. Tear-streaked. Her fingers still curled into the collar of my coat like I might vanish if she let go.
I flew steady through the cold night, keeping her close. The wind didn't bite so sharply anymore, not when I was focused on the way she breathed—slow, uneven, but alive.
I thought about everything she'd confessed. The blood on her hands, the memories she'd buried just to survive.
I told her she wasn't her past—but how could I expect her to believe that when I kept putting the weight of the future on her shoulders?
The gods chose her for a reason.
