[DAMIAN]

The heavy iron door of the packhouse lower level groaned on its hinges as I stepped into the subterranean corridor.

The air down here was thick with damp stone, cold iron, and old shame. At the end of the hall, behind reinforced silver bars, Lyra sat on the edge of a narrow cot. Her reddish-gold hair was disheveled, but her posture straightened the second my heavy boots echoed against the stone floor.

"Damian," she whispered, rushing to the cell bars, her hands gripping the cold ...