Water slammed over her like stone.
Lyra didn't scream. There was no time. The current gripped her like a fist and dragged her down, fast and merciless. Cold crushed her lungs, seized her joints, turned her breath to knives. Her limbs kicked once,twice, then slowed. Muscles locked.
Dark. Silence. Pressure.
She spun, weightless, limbs flailing. Her lungs cramped, screaming for air. One hand scraped stone. Her other arm struck something slick and jagged. Her mouth opened without meaning to.
Water punched down her throat.
It surged into her lungs like liquid fire. Her chest convulsed, ribs straining against the weight of it. She kicked, flailed, but the pressure only deepened. Water forced its way down her throat, into her nose, behind her eyes. Her jaw locked open in a silent scream. The cold bit into her core, a slow, tightening grip that coiled around her spine. Thought slipped sideways. Sound vanished. Light vanished. Only the choking pull of her body—then firelight, sudden and wrong, bloomed behind her eyes.
***
Firelight flared. Smoke curled from shattered wood. Shouts rang through the alley.
Lyra stood barefoot in the mud, shoulders hunched, eyes wide. She didn't cry. Just watched. The Wyrmwatch swarmed the doorway, cloaked, masked, and silent. Their boots struck puddles, splashing red and black, the water soaking her legs as they passed. The sigils burned faintly on their armor, old and cruel. She knew the stories. Everyone did. But seeing them in flesh and shadow was different. Final. Like the end of something she hadn't known was already breaking.
Her sister stood firm in the entrance, one arm barring the way.
"Run," she said.
Lyra stayed rooted.
Her sister shoved her back, hard enough to sting. Lyra stumbled, her heel catching in the muck. She reached out blindly, fingers brushing fabric, too late.
"Don't follow." Her sister's voice cracked, low and fierce, as if carved from the last breath she had to give. Her eyes held Lyra there, trembling, trapped between obedience and the scream building in her throat.
"You hear me?" her sister said again, softer this time. "You stay."
Lyra opened her mouth. No sound came.
Then gloved hands closed around her sister's arms, dragging her into the dark. She didn't struggle. She didn't look away.
Lyra's hands stayed frozen where they'd reached. Empty now.
Gloved hands grabbed her sister. Cloaks swept past. Chains rattled. One of them turned and met Lyra's gaze. No face, just a smooth, dark mask.
Then they were gone.
Her knees buckled. She gripped the doorframe, blinked hard. The world stayed too still.
***
Another time, another place.
Wind tugged at her coat.
Lyra ran, feet light on the sloped rooftops, a stolen apple in her hand. Laughter burst from her lips as angry voices echoed below. She jumped the gap between buildings, landed hard and low.
She ducked behind a chimney and bit into the fruit. The sweetness ran down her chin.
Later, hidden under a torn canvas by the docks, she sat cross-legged beside two kids. One had bandaged feet and wide eyes. The other reached for the apple core she held out.
He smiled at her like she was something more than smoke and bone.
She grinned back and wiped her hands on her shirt.
***
Her breath caught. Something sharp pierced behind her eyes, like a spike driven straight into memory. Her body jerked. She couldn't move, but the world twisted, abrupt and wrong. Her stomach flipped as if she were falling again, but this time into something smaller. Colder.
A shape in the dark pulled her down, and then she was there...
She sat in the dust, elbows on her knees, blood drying under her fingernails.
Her sister crouched, wiping grime from her cheek with a thumb. Her tunic was torn at the sleeve.
"You're all bone and bruises," she said.
Lyra scowled. "I'm fast."
A tired smile, cracked lips pulled wide, eyes full of things she never said aloud. No lecture. No scolding.
"You're my sunshine, you know that?" Her voice wavered, soft and cracked. "Even when I couldn't see the sky, there you were."
Lyra didn't speak. She watched her sister's face. Held onto the shape of that smile like it was a blade.
The memory shattered. Cold dragged her under again.
***
Stone slammed her back. Water burst from her chest. She wasn't dead.
Air tore from her lungs no, water. She coughed, choked, rolled. Everything hurt. The impact jolted her spine, driving the breath from her in one blunt strike. Pain flared down her ribs. Her legs twitched. Her vision snapped white for a heartbeat before the black rushed back in.
Water exploded from her throat. She rolled, hacking and choking, ribs splintering under the force of each breath. She clutched at the stone beneath her, slick and pitted.
She wasn't dead.
Bones clattered close.
"Another body," someone muttered. There was a pause, then a faint rustle as they leaned in. Bone clicked.
"Huh." A shift in tone, almost like the word had tripped out by accident. "She's... breathing."
The voice didn't finish the sentence right away. A beat passed. Then: "That's... new."
Hands grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back. The grip was hard and clumsy, more force than aim. She winced. Something scraped her collarbone. Her eyes blinked open. A skull hovered above her, too close, staring without eyes.
She blinked hard, still spitting river water between shallow gasps. Her chest heaved like it was trying to lift a weight it couldn't move. She coughed hard and twisted back, shoulder scraping the slab.
Skeletons. Three of them. One bumped a tray, sending it rattling across the surface. It turned its skull toward her, jaw slightly parted like it had something to say but forgot the words. It grumbled low, shaking its head, then busied itself straightening a crooked stack of tools with jerky, imprecise movements.
The one who had spoken leaned in. His jaw was half unhinged. One shoulder wore a ragged piece of faded velvet. Ink stained the bones of his hand. A quill was jammed behind one ear socket.
"I told them, clear the table first," he said, tapping her chest with a bony knuckle.
Lyra screamed. Her body jerked sideways, limbs scrambling, but her back slipped against the stone. She kicked out, gasping, hands slapping wildly at the skeleton's arm.
"Get off me!"
Her eyes snapped open. She flinched hard at the skull looming over her, and another scream ripped free.
She pushed herself back, coughing, shoulders scraping over the gritty slab. Her gaze shot upward.
Above her, the ceiling loomed high and curved, covered in carvings of dragons mid-flight, serpents twined through crowds of tiny human figures. But what held her breath tight were the shapes tucked into the alcoves beneath the carvings, bodies.
Shapes. Too many. Split from throat to navel. Some fresh. Some already sinking into rot.
Lyra froze. Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. The skeleton beside her leaned slightly to one side, watching her as if waiting for something else to break loose.
Lyra's hand fumbled at the edge of the table, nails scraping stone. Her arms shook too hard to hold her weight. She collapsed back, breath hitching. Her body felt like it wasn't hers.
But her eyes locked on the skeletons, and she tried again, pushing herself inch by inch toward the wall.
Her eyes darted, first to the skulls, then to the mangled corpses above. Her mouth opened again, but the sound caught in her throat.
She curled one arm over her stomach like she might throw up again, then dragged the back of her other hand across her wet face.
She didn't look away from the skeletons this time. She just kept her shoulders pressed to the wall, jaw clenched, every muscle tight as if waiting for the next bad thing to happen.
"Scriv," came a voice from the side, smooth and sharp. "Enough."
Footsteps approached. A figure stepped into view, robes dragging the floor, the cracked porcelain mask split at the jawline.
Cerys.
She was humming. Low and tuneless, like she didn't care if the melody held.
Scriv turned slightly, shoulders hunched. His head stayed down, skull tilted toward the floor. The quill behind his ear trembled in its crack.
"High Priest," Scriv said, skull angled low. "Subject is breathing. Responsive."
His phalanges twitched near the seam of his ribs, a quick, repeated motion. The quill behind his ear shifted with each slight tremor. He kept his skull tilted down, chin tucked as if that might make him smaller. He didn't look at her.
He didn't raise his gaze.
Cerys nodded. "Good."
She crouched beside Lyra. The mask leaned close.
"You stayed under longer than I expected."
Lyra turned her head slowly. Her jaw trembled. She tried to speak but only a rasp came out.
Her gaze locked on the masked figure beside her.
"High... Priest...?" she managed, barely more than a whisper, lips barely forming the shape.
She was soaked, shaking hard, fingers twitching against the cold stone. Her eyes didn't leave the mask.
The red glow narrowed, pulse steady, like she was reading something only she could see.
Cerys tilted her head. "You scream louder than most and... you didn't die."
Lyra jerked back, pressing harder against the wall. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Her arms pulled in close, elbows locked tight to her sides. Her eyes darted between the mask and the skeletons, too wide, too bright.
"Where am I?" she blurted. "What is this... W-what are you going to do to me?"
She twisted, trying to get away, but her legs buckled and folded under her. She scraped backward on her elbows, wall to her back. Her hand scraped along the wall behind her, looking for anything to hold onto.
"Don't—don't touch me!"
She winced at her own voice but couldn't stop. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Please."
Scriv, still fiddling with straps and a stained sheet, sighed. "No one ever lets me prepare things. Not properly."
He muttered, mostly to himself, "Dead don't scream. Most of them tear open like wet parchment when the Mistress tries the Wyrmheart on them. But this one... this one screams. Eh." He shook his skull slightly, quill wobbling. "I didn't sign up to work under these conditions."
Cerys didn't look at him.
Lyra coughed, her chest shuddering. She dragged air in like it might vanish.
Her lips cracked open.
"Wait. What tries what?"
Cerys rose slowly, robes whispering. "I need you."
"I do too," Scriv added quickly. "Shelving, tagging, all sorts of things. I can assist. If needed."
Cerys turned slightly. "Not you."
"Oh," Scriv said, then adjusted the tray like it mattered. "Still assisting."
Lyra's fingers curled. Her body twitched. Cold soaked through her clothes, turning her heavy.
Mold thickened the air. Bone scraped stone as the skeletons adjusted her posture, shifted her limbs. Scriv fussed over her like she was a loose page.
Cerys stood still. Watching. Waiting.
No kindness in her shape. No comfort in the glow.
Just purpose.