The air didn't smell of sulfur or smoke. It smelled of pine, ancient ice, and the sharp, clean scent of a coming blizzard.
Lyra tumbled onto the snow-covered ground, her breath coming in ragged, freezing gasps. The Gate of the Ancestors behind them flickered once and then vanished, leaving only a circle of scorched earth in the middle of a vast, white wilderness. The transition had stripped the last of her energy; the silver veins on her arms were dim, looking more like faded scars than conduits of power.
Valerius was on his feet in a second, despite the grey pallor of his skin. He didn't look at the horizon; he looked at her. He knelt in the deep snow, his hands—still radiating a faint, dying warmth—hauling her up against him.
"Stay with me," he rasped, his voice cracking from the
