The fire in Lyra’s chamber burned low, its glow soft against the stone walls. The quiet stretched, broken only by the faint pop of wood and the whisper of the wind outside. Eira stood with her arms crossed near the door, sharp as always, her pale eyes fixed on the young maid kneeling nervously in front of Lyra’s chair.

Mara’s shoulders were shaking. She kept her gaze on the floor, as if the weight of both women staring at her was too much. Her lips moved once, then stopped, like the words ...