The morning of Lyra's eighteenth birthday dawned with a sky that was woven from every color that had ever existed.
She stood on the cliffs above the harbor, watching the sun rise over Cinderhall. The city was transcendent. Spires of white stone and crystal reached toward the heavens like prayers made manifest. Gardens bloomed on every terrace, cascading with flowers that seemed to glow with their own inner light. The streets were filled with people from every corner of the realm, their faces bright with hope and purpose.
But Lyra saw beyond the beauty. She saw the threads. The golden threads that connected all things. The threads of light and shadow, hope and fear, love and loss. She had been born with the gift of seeing them. The gift of the Weavers' Heir.
And now she saw something els
