The peace of that morning, warm and tender as it was, lingered only for a precious few hours. Once breakfast was cleared and the Packhouse woke into its usual bustling rhythm, the weight of the unanswered questions, the unresolved mysteries of Lyra’s past, crept back into their minds, settling like a persistent chill.
Lyra sat curled up in one of the deep, plush armchairs in the twins’ expansive study, a thick wool blanket draped over her legs, a mug of steaming herbal tea clutched in her hands.
The steam curled upward, tickling her nose with its comforting scent, but her focus was not on the tea. It was entirely consumed by the formidable pile of old, yellowed scrolls and ancient, leather-bound tomes spread across the large, ornate desk.
And, more acutely, on the tension radiating fr
