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.

"Get up," Lyra ordered, her hands trembling as she pressed them against the steady, pulsing flow of dark blood oozing through Vane's heavy coat. "Vane, you have to get up!"

Around them, the feral ward descended into chaos. Four heavily armored Lycan guards surged into the cell, throwing thick iron

The following evening, Lyra was standing in her indoor garden, aggressively tearing the leaves off a sprig of ghost-root, when the heavy lock on her door turned.

She didn't look up as the door swung open. She knew his scent before he even stepped into the room—frost, leather, and the metallic tang