It started with the creaking.
At first, Lyra thought it was just the old bones of the packhouse adjusting to the shift in weather. Spring rains had started, and the wooden floors and walls were known to groan as they expanded. Still, something about the sound unsettled her.
A long, slow drag of pressure across the floor outside her room.
Once, she could’ve sworn she heard a whisper. Not words. Just the shape of them—like someone mouthing speech with no breath to carry it.
She kept it to herself for a few days, brushing it off as her frayed nerves, the lingering trauma of the shift, and the overwhelming changes inside her body.
But on the next night, she sat up in bed, heart pounding, her skin cold despite the warmth of the blanket around her.
It was nearly two in the morning.
Xande
