The air before the gate shimmered like the surface of a mirror.
Each breath Lyra took felt heavier than the last, as though the world itself were pausing to watch.
The Palace of Thorns towered above her, vast and dreadful in its beauty. Its walls pulsed faintly with red light, the vines winding across them like veins. From the highest spire, a beam of soft luminescence spilled into the dawn sky — not sunlight, but something older, colder.
The gate itself was a pair of colossal doors, carved from petrified wood and bound in iron that seemed to breathe. Symbols older than speech burned faintly along its edges, whispering in languages Lyra's soul seemed to understand.
Crowley let out a low whistle.
"Well. I've stolen from castles, graveyards, and the occasional bakery, but this? This feels like blasphemy just looking at it."
Ursa's voice rumbled beside him.
"This is where gods fall asleep and nightmares wake."
Lyra stepped forward.
The vines drew back. Slowly. Reluctantly.
They didn't crack or shatter — they moved, slithering away from the gate as though recognizing something older than themselves. The sigil on Lyra's wrist burned hot, and the gate began to hum.
"It's answering you," Nim whispered.
"Or warning me," Lyra said softly.
The gate split down the middle with a sound like the slow tearing of the sky.
A faint, cold wind poured through, carrying with it the scent of roses — and decay.
Inside, light and darkness danced in strange harmony.
The floor was glass, reflecting a thousand fractured stars. Pillars of marble spiraled toward ceilings lost in shadow, their surfaces etched with shifting scenes: battles, coronations, betrayals — the entire history of a kingdom erased from time.
Lyra took one step in, and the world seemed to sigh.
The palace knew her.
Each echo of her footstep was answered by a whisper, each breath she drew mirrored by the slow pulse of light along the walls.
Ursa followed, silent and solemn. Nim crept close to Lyra's side, her fur bristling. Crowley perched on a vine, his usual chatter silenced by awe.
The gate sealed behind them with a quiet thud.
"No turning back," Ursa murmured.
"Did we ever?" Lyra replied.
They walked deeper into the hall.
The air thickened. The reflections in the glass floor began to shift, showing not their faces, but fragments of memory — Lyra as a child in the orphanage, crying under the rain; a boy she'd once known laughing before fading into mist; her mother standing at a balcony made of light.
"It's reading you," Crowley said uneasily. "Like a storybook that's still being written."
"Then let it read," Lyra whispered. "But I'll choose how it ends."
At the center of the hall stood a fountain. Or what had once been one. Now it was dry, its basin filled with black vines coiled tight like sleeping serpents. Above it, a statue — a woman carved from marble, her eyes closed, her hand reaching toward something that wasn't there.
Lyra knew that face.
Her mother.
The vines twitched. Slowly, their tips began to glow crimson.
Nim's fur flared. "Lyra…"
"I see it," she said.
The glow spread along the vines, up the statue's legs, coiling around its arms like living chains. A deep rumble filled the air, soft at first, then swelling until it seemed to shake the entire palace.
The vines snapped open like eyes.
And a voice rolled through the hall — deep, smooth, terrible.
"So the lost child returns."
The sound came from everywhere and nowhere, weaving through the air like smoke.
"The girl who carries two fires — light and flame. The mistake that cost me a kingdom."
Lyra drew her sword, the silver edge singing softly.
"Malgar."
"Niece," the voice said, almost fondly. "You wear your mother's face. But her mercy will not save you here."
Ursa stepped forward, claws flexed.
"Show yourself, shadow."
Malgar's laugh rippled through the chamber, cold and delighted.
"Why ruin the beauty of anticipation?"
The glass beneath their feet shifted. The stars reflected in it flickered out, one by one, until the world below turned into a sea of shadow. Then, slowly, shapes began to move within it — hundreds of them, crawling upward.
Lyra gripped her sword tighter.
"Illusions?"
"Memories," said the voice. "Every soul that fell the night your parents died. Every one who screamed for their light."
The shadows reached for her — hands made of smoke, faces twisted in sorrow.
Lyra's vision blurred. She saw her father among them — his armor shattered, his eyes filled with pain.
She almost stepped forward.
Ursa's roar snapped her back.
"Don't look! They are not yours to save!"
The shadows shrieked and lunged.
Lyra swung her blade — light burst outward, pure and bright. The first wave of spirits dissolved, scattering into mist.
"You cannot fight what you are," Malgar's voice murmured. "You are the child of ruin. Your blood carries the curse."
"No," Lyra said through gritted teeth. "My blood carries the dawn."
Her eyes turned grey, shining like storm clouds split by lightning.
The palace trembled. The vines recoiled, and for a moment, the light of the fountain flared white.
Malgar hissed — the sound sharp enough to crack the air.
"You think you can balance light and flame? You will burn yourself before you ever rule."
"Then let me burn," Lyra whispered. "As long as it's bright enough to end you."
The hall fell silent.
The vines froze. The shadows sank back into the glass.
A low, almost pleased chuckle filled the chamber.
"Courage," Malgar said. "Yes. I see it now. Perhaps you truly are their daughter. Come, little dawnfire. The heart awaits you."
A door appeared at the far end of the hall — enormous, carved from onyx and thorn.
It opened, and the scent of roses and ash poured through.
Nim looked up at Lyra. "We're really going in there, aren't we?"
Lyra nodded.
"Yes. To finish what they started."
Crowley groaned softly. "Next time we pick a quest, can we choose one with fewer haunted relatives?"
Ursa's deep laugh rumbled. "And miss this?"
Lyra smiled faintly. "Come on. The heart's waiting."
Together, they stepped toward the black door — and the palace breathed them in.