The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the cavernous, freezing room.

Lyra sat frozen on the massive bed for a long moment, staring at the thick oak door. Her breath plumed in the frigid air, a pale mist that quickly vanished into the shadows. The reality of the lock, the fortress, and the

"You," Lyra breathed.

Before her rational mind could catch up with her survival instinct, she whipped her hand out of her pocket and hurled the crushed mixture of snow-poppy root and ash-cap directly into Vane’s face.

A cloud of pale gray dust exploded between them. The Mad King inhaled sharply,

Vane did not lead her back up to the gilded prison in the tower. Instead, he marched her across the snow-covered courtyard and toward a heavy, reinforced iron door set into the base of the mountain.

"Where are we going?" Lyra demanded, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the biting chill.