Lyra knew before Kieran told her.

She felt it in the stone.

The Frostlands had a way of carrying agitation not whispers, not sound, but pressure. A subtle tightening in the corridors, a hum beneath the wards that shifted when power redistributed itself without permission. The palace did not panic often. When it did, it meant someone had challenged a hierarchy that believed itself permanent.

Lyra stood in the western archive, fingers dusted with ash and vellum, a thin smile ghosting her lips as ...