Lyra stood in the wide palace courtyard, her fingers curled into the thick fur lining of her cloak. She could feel the frost in the air, taste the bite of it at the back of her throat.

The scents around her were overwhelming , the leather creak of saddles, the oil rubbed into armor, the metallic tang of sharpened blades, and the musk of wolves shifting restlessly nearby.

She didn’t need to see the scene to know what was happening. The clink of armor, the steady shuffle of boots, and the deep, ...