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

The words hung in the freezing air, sharp and jagged as the icicles clinging to the obsidian parapets. *Caleb.* The name alone was enough to make Lyra’s stomach churn, a toxic mixture of old heartbreak and fresh, blazing anger rising in her throat.

"It seems," Vane repeated, his voice dropping an

"Maps?" Lyra repeated, the word tasting like ash on her tongue. She stared at Caleb, her mind struggling to process the sheer audacity of his demand. "You want me to steal Vane’s border patrol maps?"

"Keep your voice down!" Caleb hissed, his eyes darting frantically toward the heavy wooden door. He