Lyra's POV
The sun never rose clean that morning only a dim red light leaking through storm-stained clouds, as if the heavens themselves grieved what was to come. The air felt heavy, thick with the smell of rain and iron. It soaked into the stones of Riverbend, into the skin of every warrior preparing to leave.
By dusk, the courtyard was a restless sea of movement.
Steel gleamed under torchlight. Wolves in human form strapped on weapons, adjusted cloaks, mounted horses that pawed anxiously at the mud. Every sound the scrape of metal, the low murmurs, the crunch of boots blended into one endless drumbeat of departure.
I stood near the gate, cloak drawn tight, watching the last wagons roll out. Every heartbeat carried the same rhythm: back to Silverfang, back to the ashes. The pack I was born into waited for me somewhere in the ruins. Or what was left of it.
