The white ship was not a rescue. It was a question.
Elias watched it cut through the dawn, a long, clean vessel with no name on the bow and no flag on the mast. Its hull was the color of bone, and its lights were too bright, too steady. It moved with the quiet confidence of a predator that had already seen its prey.
"Who are they?" Lyra whispered. She was curled beside him in the raft, her small body still trembling from the island's collapse.
"I don't know." Elias kept one hand on the broken paddle, the other on Lyra's shoulder. "But we're not in a position to refuse help."
The ship slowed as it neared, its engines dropping to a low thrum. A door slid open amidships, and a small launch emerged, carrying three figures in white coveralls. They looked like medical personnel—no weapons, n
