LYRA POINT OF VIEW

The knock on the door cracked through my chamber like a whip, three hard, uneven strikes.

I lowered the jeweled comb in my hand, silk pooling around my legs as I straightened. A prickle of anticipation ran down my spine.

“Enter.”

The door opened just enough for one of the soldier spies to slip inside. Dust muddied his boots, and chest still rising sharply from the ride back. He bowed deep, his eyes fixed on the floorboards as though afraid to meet mine.

“My ...