Lyra slept poorly.

Not from pain, not from nightmares the way she once had, but from a constant sense of displacement, like her body had shifted half an inch out of alignment with itself. Every time she drifted too deeply, something tugged her back to the surface. Awareness without cause. Vigilance without threat.

When she finally rose, it was still dark.

She did not retch this time, but the nausea hovered, patient, like it knew it had time. Lyra moved slowly, deliberately, as though sudden ...