The door shut behind them with a thud that shook the marrow of the air.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The corridor ahead glowed faintly — veins of red light ran along the walls like flowing blood beneath translucent skin.
Lyra moved first.
The silence pressed close, too close, like a hand on her throat.
"He's watching," she whispered.
"Let him," said Ursa. "He'll wish he hadn't."
The bear's voice carried no humor now — only the slow thunder of restrained fury.
The corridor stretched on endlessly. With each step, the walls seemed to breathe. Their surfaces rippled, shapes forming and fading like smoke in wind — faces, eyes, memories.
Lyra's own voice began to echo around her.
Soft at first. Then louder.
"You'll never save them."
She froze. It was her voice — but colder, older, soaked in doubt.
Nim whimpered and pressed against her leg. "Lyra?"
The walls shifted.
Suddenly the corridor split, and she stood alone.
Ursa, Crowley, Nim — gone. Only her shadow remained, stretching long and thin before her.
"You left them behind," the echo whispered. "Like you left everyone."
"You're not real," Lyra said, her voice low.
"Neither was your mother by the end."
The words hit her like a blade.
Her breath hitched. Her sword shook in her hand.
The voice softened — becoming almost kind.
"Why do you fight? Why not rest here, among the ghosts who loved you?"
Lyra's eyes turned grey.
"Because I owe them more than rest."
She swung her sword.
The wall split like flesh, spilling light instead of blood. The illusion shattered — and the world snapped back.
Ursa was roaring. Nim was hissing. Crowley was shrieking curses in three languages.
And the corridor was alive.
Vines the size of tree trunks lashed from the ceiling. Thorned tendrils whipped across the floor, slicing through marble like silk. The air stank of sap and smoke.
Ursa lunged, tearing vines apart with his claws, but for each one ripped free, three more grew in its place.
"It's feeding on her anger!" Crowley cried.
"Then let it starve!" Lyra shouted.
She leapt forward — her body moving on instinct.
Her sword met the vines mid-swing, severing them in arcs of silver light. The recoil knocked her backward, but she rolled with it, slicing another as it lunged for Nim.
Nim darted up the wall, her fur sparking with energy. She spat a bolt of light that burned through a cluster of vines, leaving a smoking scar in the wall.
Ursa roared again, smashing both paws into the ground. The floor cracked — and from the fissure, a burst of cold air erupted, freezing the nearest vines solid.
Lyra didn't hesitate. She plunged her blade into the ice, shattering it. The frozen vines fell apart like glass.
For a moment, there was quiet.
Then the walls groaned — low, angry, alive.
The floor split open, revealing a spiral staircase descending into darkness.
"Below," said Ursa. "That's where it breathes."
"The heart," Lyra said.
Crowley fluttered closer to her shoulder, feathers slick with dust. "We go down there, we might not come back up."
"Then we don't stop climbing," she said.
The descent felt endless.
The deeper they went, the thicker the air became — heavy with the scent of iron and roses. The walls were slick, pulsing faintly with dull red light.
At the bottom, the staircase opened into a cavern vast enough to hold the sky.
A single, massive structure rose from its center — a black crystal, wrapped in chains of gold and thorn. It pulsed slowly, like a beating heart. Each pulse sent ripples through the floor.
And at its base stood a figure.
Malgar.
He was taller than Lyra remembered from her dreams — his armor dark as oil, his eyes twin coals burning in shadow. The crown he wore looked half-melted, fused to his skull.
"Little dawnfire," he said softly. "You made it farther than I thought."
Lyra raised her sword. "You murdered them."
"I freed them," Malgar said. "Your father was too weak to wield the power our blood carries. Your mother too kind to use it. I gave them mercy."
"You call slaughter mercy?"
"I call it balance."
His hand rose — and the vines obeyed.
They surged from the ground, striking like serpents. Lyra dove aside, rolling to her feet, sword flashing. Ursa roared and charged, smashing through one vine only to be ensnared by another.
Crowley darted through the chaos, slicing through strands with his beak while Nim leapt from vine to vine, blinding Malgar with bursts of light.
Lyra moved through the fray like fire — every swing of her sword met by a counterstrike. Sparks flew, the air thick with smoke and fury.
"You cannot win," Malgar said. "The heart obeys me."
"Then I'll teach it to remember its queen."
She raised her sword high — and it blazed, silver and white, brighter than dawn.
The vines screamed.
The heart throbbed faster, faster — until the chains binding it snapped like brittle bone.
Malgar's expression shifted from arrogance to sudden fear.
The light from Lyra's blade lanced through the cavern, piercing the heart itself. For one terrible instant, the entire palace seemed to inhale.
Then — silence.
The vines withered. The red glow faded to gold.
Lyra fell to her knees, her breath ragged. Ursa limped toward her, blood streaking his fur. Nim pressed close, trembling. Crowley perched on her shoulder, silent for once.
Malgar was gone. Only his crown remained, lying cracked beside the heart.
Lyra looked up — the ceiling above them had begun to split. Light poured through, not red or gold, but clear and living.
"It's over," Nim whispered.
Lyra shook her head.
"No. It's only beginning."
She reached out and touched the heart.
It pulsed once, warm beneath her hand — and the vines that once strangled the palace began to bloom. Roses. Thousands of them, bright as dawn.
The kingdom was waking.